UNIVERSITY 
AT   LO 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
5  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

C.   G.  De  Garmo 


Cobv 


ELBERT    HUBBARD 

Photogravure  from  a  copyrighted  photograph  by  R.  Morris  Williams 


This  Copy 

of 


JWemortai  Cbition 

in  Fourteen  Volumes 

of 
ELBERT  HUBBARD'S 

Hittle  5ourneps 

Co  tfte  Horned  of  the  (@reat 

Has  been  specially 
prepared  by  the  Roy  crofters  in  their  shops, 

which  are  in 

East  Aurora,  Erie  County 
New  York, 

for 


ami* 

Jlounup 


ft*  mm  *  of  tt)f  (grtat 

•MM 

foubbard 

•••• 

jHemorial  edition 


uk  Mif  int«  t 

Bitmftnf,  toiirk  if  in  Cut 


Copyright,  1916, 
By  The  Roycrof  lers 


/of 

6 

JLr 


PUBLISHER'S  PREFACE 

ELBERT  HUBBARD  is  dead,  or  should  we  say, 
has  gone  on  his  last  Little  Journey  to  the  Great 
Beyond.  But  the  children  of  his  fertile  brain  still 
*      live  and  will  continue  to  live  and  keep  fresh  the  memory 
Y      of  their  illustrious  forebear. 

j» 

^      Fourteen  years  were  consumed  in  the  preparation  of 

^  the  work  that  ranks  today  as  Elbert  Hubbard's  master- 
piece. In  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-four,  the  series  of 

•I  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of  the  Great  was  begun, 
and  once  a  month  for  fourteen  years,  without  a  break, 

**     one  of  these  little  pilgrimages  was  given  to  the  world. 

X>  These  little  gems  have  been  accepted  as  classics  and 
will  live.  In  all  there  are  one  hundred  eighty  Little 
Journeys  that  take  us  to  the  homes  of  the  men  and 
women  who  transformed  the  thought  of  their  time, 
changed  the  course  of  empire,  and  marked  the  destiny 
of  civilization.  Through  him,  the  ideas,  the  deeds,  the 
achievements  of  these  immortals  have  been  given  to 
the  living  present  and  will  be  sent  echoing  down  the 
centuries  33  33 

Hubbard's  Little  Journeys  to  the  homes  of  these  men 
and  women  have  not  been  equaled  since  Plutarch  wrote 
his  forty- six  parallel  lives  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 

,A  And  these  were  given  to  the  world  before  the  first  rosy 
dawn  of  modern  civilization  had  risen  to  the  horizon. 
Without  dwelling  upon  their  achievements,  Plutarch, 

v 


4C651O 


PUBLISHER'S    PREFACE 


with  a  trifling  incident,  a  simple  word  or  an  innocent 
jest,  showed  the  virtues  and  failings  of  his  subject. 
As  a  result,  no  other  books  from  classical  literature  have 
come  down  through  the  ages  to  us  with  so  great  an 
influence  upon  the  lives  of  the  leading  men  of  the 
world.  Who  can  recount  the  innumerable  biographies 
that  begin  thus:  "  In  his  youth,  our  subject  had  for  his 
constant  reading,  Plutarch's  Lives,  etc."  ?  Emerson  must 
have  had  in  mind  this  silent,  irresistible  force  that  shaped 
the  lives  of  the  great  men  of  these  twenty  centuries 
when  he  declared,  "  All  history  resolves  itself  very 
easily  into  the  biography  of  a  few  stout  and  earnest 
persons."  £•»  &+ 

Plutarch  lived  in  the  time  of  Saint  Paul,  and  wrote  of 
the  early  Greeks  and  Romans.  After  two  thousand  years 
Hubbard  appeared,  to  bridge  the  centuries  from  Athens, 
in  the  golden  age  of  Pericles,  to  America,  in  the  wondrous 
age  of  Edison.  With  the  magic  wand  of  genius  he 
touched  the  buried  mummies  of  all  time,  and  from  each 
tomb  gushed  forth  a  geyser  of  inspiration. 
Hugh  Chalmers  once  remarked  that,  if  he  were  getting 
out  a  Blue  Book  of  America,  he  would  publish  Elbert 
Hubbard' s  subscription-lists.  Whether  we  accept  this 
authoritative  statement  or  not,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  pen  of  this  immortal  did  more  to  stimulate  the  best 
minds  of  the  country  than  any  other  American  writer, 
living  or  dead.  Eminent  writers  study  Hubbard  for 
style,  while  at  the  same  time  thousands  of  the  tired 
vi 


PUBLISHER'S    PREFACE 


men  and  women  who  do  the  world's  work  read  him  for 
inspiration.  Truly,  this  man  wielded  his  pen  like  an 
archangel  &  £•» 

Not  only  as  a  writer  does  this  many-sided  genius 
command  our  admiration,  but  in  many  chosen  fields, 
in  all  of  which  he  excelled.  As  an  institution,  the 
Roycroft  Shops  would  reflect  credit  upon  the  business 
acumen  of  the  ablest  men  that  America  has  produced 
in  the  field  of  achievement.  The  industry,  it  would  seem, 
was  launched  to  demonstrate  the  practicality  of  the 
high  principles  and  philosophy  preached  by  its  founder, 
not  only  by  the  printed  page,  but  from  the  platform. 
Right  here  let  it  be  noted  that,  as  a  public  speaker, 
Hubbard  appeared  before  more  audiences  than  any 
other  lecturer  of  his  time  who  gave  the  platform  his 
undivided  attention.  Where,  one  asks  in  amazement, 
did  this  remarkable  man  find  the  inspiration  for  carry- 
ing forward  his  great  work?  It  is  no  secret.  It  was 
drawn  from  his  own  little  pilgrimages  to  the  haunts  of 
the  great.  Again  like  Plutarch,  these  miniature  biogra- 
phies were  composed  for  the  personal  benefit  of  the 
writer.  It  was  his  own  satisfaction  and  moral  improve- 
ment that  inspired  the  work. 

Following  Hubbard' s  tragic  death,  the  announcement 
was  made  from  East  Aurora  that  "  The  Philistine  " 
Magazine  would  be  discontinued — Hubbard  had  gone 
on  a  long  journey  and  might  need  his  "  Philistine." 
Besides,  who  was  there  to  take  up  his  pen?  It  was  also  a 

vii 


PUBLISHER'S    PREFACE 


beautiful  tribute  to  the  father  from  the  son.  C.  The  same 
spirit  of  devotion  has  prompted  The  Roycrofters  to 
issue  their  Memorial  Edition  of  the  "  Little  Journeys 
to  the  Homes  of  the  Great."  In  no  other  way  could  they 
so  fittingly  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  founder  of 
their  institution  as  to  liberate  the  influence  that  was 
such  an  important  factor  in  molding  the  career  of  his 
genius.  If  he  should  cast  a  backward  glance,  he  would 
nod  his  approval.  If  there  is  to  be  a  memorial,  certainly 
let  it  be  a  service  to  mankind.  He  would  have  us  all 
tap  the  same  source  from  which  he  drew  his  inspiration. 


CONTENTS 

PUBLISHER'S  PREFACE  v 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL         ....  xi 

GEORGE  ELIOT 47 

THOMAS  CARLYLE    .....  65 

JOHN  RUSKIN 85 

WILLIAM  E.  GLADSTONE        ...  101 

J.  M.  W.  TURNER 121 

JONATHAN  SWIFT 141 

WALT  WHITMAN 161 

VICTOR  HUGO 183 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH    ....  209 

WILLIAM  M.  THACKERAY      .        .        .  227 

CHARLES  DICKENS 245 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH         ....  271 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE     ....  299 

THOMAS  A.  EDISON  319 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


The  mintage  of  wisdom  is  to  know  that 
rest  is  rust,  and  that  real  life  is  in  love, 
laughter  and  work. 

— ElbeH  Hubbard 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


HAVE  been  asked  to  write  an 
article  about  myself  and  the  work  in 
which  I  am  engaged.  I  think  I  am 
honest  enough  to  sink  self,  to  stand 
outside  my  own  personality,  and 
answer  the  proposition  .53  Let  me 
begin  by  telling  what  I  am  not,  and 
thus  reach  the  vital  issue  by  elim- 
ination. <I  First,  I  am  not  popular  in  "  Society,"  and 
those  who  champion  my  cause  in  my  own  town  are 
plain,  unpretentious  people. 

Second,  I  am  not  a  popular  writer,  since  my  name  has 
never  been  mentioned  in  the  "  Atlantic,"  "  Scribner's," 
"  Harper's,"    "The  Century  "  or  the  "  Ladies'  Home 
Journal."  But  as  a  matter  of  truth,  it  may  not  be  amiss 
for  me  to  say  that  I  have  waited  long  hours  in  the  entry- 
way  of  each  of  the  magazines  just  named,  in  days  agone, 
and  then  been  handed  the  frappe. 
Third,  I  am  not  rich,  as  the  world  counts  wealth. 
Fourth,  as  an  orator  I  am  without  the  graces,  and  do 
scant  justice  to  the  double-breasted  Prince  Albert. 
Fifth,  the  Roycroft  Shop,  to  the  welfare  of  which  my 
life  is  dedicated,  is  not  so  large  as  to  be  conspicuous  on 
account  of  size. 

Sixth,  personally,  I  am  no  ten- thousand-dollar  beauty: 
the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mold  of  form  are  far  from 

xiii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


mine,  fl  Then  what  have  I  done  concerning  which  the 
public  wishes  to  know?  Simply  this: 
In  one  obscure  country  village  I  have  had  something 
to  do  with  stopping  the  mad  desire  on  the  part  of  the 
young  people  to  get  out  of  the  country  and  flock  to 
the  cities.  In  this  town  and  vicinity  the  tide  has  been 
turned  from  city  to  country.  We  have  made  one 
country  village  an  attractive  place  for  growing  youth, 
by  supplying  congenial  employment,  opportunity  for 
education  and  healthful  recreation,  and  an  outlook 
into  the  world  of  art  and  beauty. 

All  boys  and  girls  want  to  make  things  with  their 
hands,  and  they  want  to  make  beautiful  things,  they 
want  to  "  get  along,"  and  I  Ve  simply  given  them  a 
chance  to  get  along  here,  instead  of  seeking  their 
fortunes  in  Buffalo,  New  York  or  Chicago.  They 
have  helped  me  and  I  have  helped  them;  and  through 
this  mutual  help  we  have  made  head,  gained  ground 
upon  the  whole. 

By  myself  I  could  have  done  nothing,  and  if  I  have 
succeeded,  it  is  simply  because  I  have  had  the  aid  and 
co-operation  of  cheerful,  willing,  loyal  and  loving 
helpers.  Even  now  as  I  am  writing  this  in  my  cabin  in 
the  woods,  four  miles  from  the  village,  they  are  down 
there  at  the  Shop,  quietly,  patiently,  cheerfully  doing 
my  work — which  work  is  also  theirs. 
No  man  liveth  unto  himself  alone:  our  interests  are  all 
bound  up  together,  and  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
xiv 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


man  going  off  by  himself  and  corraling  the  good. 
<I  When  I  came  to  this  town  there  was  not  a  house  in 
the  place  that  had  a  lavatory  with  hot  and  cold  water 
attachments.  Those  who  bathed,  swam  in  the  creek 
in  the  Summer  or  used  the  family  washtub  in  the 
kitchen  in  Winter.  My  good  old  partner,  Ali  Baba, 
has  always  prided  himself  on  his  personal  cleanli- 
ness. He  is  arrayed  in  rags,  but  underneath,  his  hide 
is  clean,  and  better  still,  his  heart  is  right.  Yet  when 
he  first  became  a  member  of  my  household,  he  was 
obliged  to  take  his  Saturday-night  tub  out  in  the 
orchard,  from  Spring  until  Autumn  came  with  withered 
leaves  33  53 

He  used  to  make  quite  an  ado  in  the  kitchen,  heating 
the  water  in  the  wash-boiler.  Six  pails  of  cistern-water, 
a  gourd  of  soft  soap,  and  a  gunny-sack  for  friction  were 
required  in  the  operation.  Of  course,  the  Baba  waited 
until  after  dark  before  performing  his  ablutions.  But 
finally  his  plans  were  more  or  less  disturbed  by  certain 
rising  youth,  who  timed  his  habits  and  awaited  his 
disrobing  with  o'erripe  tomatoes.  The  bombardment, 
and  the  inability  to  pursue  the  enemy,  turned  the 
genial  current  of  the  Baba's  life  awry  until  I  put  a 
bathroom  in  my  house,  with  a  lock  on  the  door. 
This  bit  of  history  I  have  mentioned  for  the.  dual 
purpose  of  shedding  light  on  former  bathing  facilities 
in  East  Aurora,  and  more  especially  to  show  that  once 
we  had  the  hoodlum  with  us. 

xv 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


Hoodlumism  is  born  of  idleness;  it  is  useful  energy 
gone  to  seed.  In  small  towns  hoodlumism  is  rife,  and 
the  hoodlums  are  usually  the  children  of  the  best 
citizens.  Hoodlumism  is  the  first  step  in  the  direction 
of  crime.  The  hoodlum  is  very  often  a  good  boy  who 
does  not  know  what  to  do;  and  so  he  does  the  wrong 
thing.  He  bombards  with  tomatoes  a  good  man  taking 
a  bath,  puts  ticktacks  on  windows,  ties  a  tin  can  to  the 
dog's  tail,  takes  the  burs  off  your  carriage-wheels, 
steals  your  chickens,  annexes  your  horse-blankets,  and 
scares  old  ladies  into  fits  by  appearing  at  windows 
wrapped  in  a  white  sheet.  To  wear  a  mask,  walk  in 
and  demand  the  money  in  the  family  ginger- jar  is  the 
next  and  natural  evolution. 

To  a  great  degree  the  Roycroft  Shop  has  done  away 
with  hoodlumism  in  this  village,  and  a  stranger  wear- 
ing a  silk  hat,  or  an  artist  with  a  white  umbrella,  is 
now  quite  safe  upon  our  streets.  Very  naturally,  the 
Oldest  Inhabitant  will  deny  what  I  have  said  about 
East  Aurora — he  will  tell  you  that  the  order,  cleanli- 
ness and  beauty  of  the  place  have  always  existed. 
The  change  has  come  about  so  naturally,  and  so 
entirely  without  his  assistance,  that  he  knows  nothing 
about  it  33  3& 

Truth  wlien  first  presented  is  always  denied,  but  later 
there  comes  a  stage  when  the  man  says,  "  I  always 
believed  it."  And  so  the  good  old  citizens  are  induced 
to  say  that  these  things  have  always  been,  or  else  they 
xvi 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


gently  pooh-pooh  them.  However,  the  truth  remains 
that  I  introduced  the  first  heating-furnace  into  the 
town;  bought  the  first  lawn-mower;  was  among  the 
first  to  use  electricity  for  lights  and  natural  gas  for  fuel ; 
and  so  far,  am  the  only  one  in  town  to  use  natural  gas 
for  power  33  33 

Until  the  starting  of  the  Roycroft  Shop,  there  were 
no  industries  here,  aside  from  the  regulation  country 
store,  grocery,  tavern,  blacksmith-shop  and  sawmill 
— none  of  which  enterprises  attempted  to  supply 
more  than  local  wants. 

There  was  Hamlin's  stock-farm,  devoted  to  raising 
trotting-horses,  that  gave  employment  to  some  of  the 
boys;  but  for  the  girls  there  was  nothing.  They  got 
married  at  the  first  chance;  some  became  "  hired  girls," 
or,  if  they  had  ambitions,  fixed  their  hearts  on  the 
Buffalo  Normal  School,  raised  turkeys,  picked  berries, 
and  turned  every  honest  penny  towards  the  desire  to 
get  an  education  so  as  to  become  teachers.  Compara- 
tively, this  class  was  small  in  number.  Most  of  the  others 
simply  followed  that  undefined  desire  to  get  away 
out  of  the  dull,  monotonous,  gossiping  village;  and 
so,  craving  excitement,  they  went  away  to  the  cities, 
and  the  cities  swallowed  them.  A  wise  man  has  said 
that  God  made  the  country,  man  the  city,  and  the 
devil  the  small  towns. 

The  country  supplies  the  city  its  best  and  its  worst. 
We  hear  of  the  few  who  succeed,  but  of  the  many 

xvii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


who  are  lost  in  the  maelstrom  we  know  nothing. 
Sometimes  in  country  homes  it  is  even  forbidden  to 
mention  certain  names.  "  She  went  to  the  city,"  you 
are  told — and  there  the  history  abruptly  stops. 
And  so,  to  swing  back  to  the  place  of  beginning,  I 
think  the  chief  reason  many  good  folks  are  interested 
in  the  Roycroft  Shop  is  because  here  country  boys 
and  girls  are  given  work  at  which  they  not  only  earn 
their  living,  but  can  get  an  education  while  doing  it. 
Next  to  this  is  the  natural  curiosity  to  know  how  a 
large  and  successful  business  can  be  built  up  in  a 
plain,  humdrum  village  by  simply  using  the  talent 
and  materials  that  are  at  hand,  and  so  I  am  going  to 
telljiow  how  the  Roycroft  Shop  came  to  start;  a  little 
about  what  it  has  done;  what  it  is  trying  to  do;  and 
what  it  hopes  to  become.  And  since  modesty  is  only 
egotism  turned  wrong  side  out,  I  will  make  no  special 
endeavor  to  conceal  the  fact  that  I  have  had  something 
to  do  with  the  venture. 

In  London,  from  about  Sixteen  Hundred  Fifty  to 
Sixteen  Hundred  Ninety,  Samuel  and  Thomas  Roy- 
croft printed  and  made  very  beautiful  books.  In 
choosing  the  name  "  Roycroft "  for  our  Shop  we 
had  these  men  in  mind,  but  beyond  this  the  word 
has  a  special  significance,  meaning  King's  Craft — 
King's  craftsmen  being  a  term  used  in  the  Guilds  of  the 
olden  times  for  men  who  had  achieved  a  high  degree 
of  skill — men  who  made  things  for  the  King.  So  a 
xviii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


Roycrofter  is  a  person  who  makes  beautiful  things, 
and  makes  them  as  well  as  he  can.  "  The  Roycrofters  " 
is  the  legal  name  of  our  institution.  It  is  a  corporation, 
and  the  shares  are  distributed  among  the  workers. 
No  shares  are  held  by  any  one  but  Roycrofters,  and  it 
is  agreed  that  any  worker  who  quits  the  Shop  shall 
sell  his  shares  back  to  the  concern.  This  co-operative 
plan,  it  has  been  found,  begets  a  high  degree  of  personal 
diligence,  a  loyalty  to  the  institution,  a  sentiment  of 
fraternity  and  a  feeling  of  permanency  among  the 
workers  that  is  very  beneficial  to  all  concerned.  Each 
worker,  even  the  most  humble,  calls  it  "  Our  Shop," 
and  feels  that  he  is  an  integral  and  necessary  part  of  the 
Whole.  Possibly  there  are  a  few  who  consider  themselves 
more  than  necessary.  Ali  Baba,  for  instance,  it  is 
said,  has  referred  to  himself,  at  times,  as  the  Whole 
Thing.  And  this  is  all  right,  too — I  would  never  chide 
an  excess  of  zeal:  the  pride  of  a  worker  in  his  worth 
and  work  is  a  thing  to  foster  55  It 's  the  man  who 
"  does  n't  give  a  damn  "  who  is  really  troublesome. 
The  artistic  big-head  is  not  half  so  bad  as  apathy  S& 


xix 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


N  the  month  of  December,  Eighteen  Hun- 
dred Ninety-four,  I  printed  the  first  "  Little 
Journeys "  in  booklet  form,  at  the  local 
printing-office,  having  become  discouraged 
in  trying  to  find  a  publisher.  But  before  offering  the 
publication  to  the  public,  I  decided  to  lay  the  matter 
again  before  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  although  they  had 
declined  the  matter  in  manuscript  form.  Mr.  George 
H.  Putnam  rather  liked  the  matter,  and  was  induced 
to  issue  the  periodical  as  a  venture  for  one  year.  The 
scheme  seemed  to  meet  with  success,  the  novel  form 
of  the  publication  being  in  its  favor.  The  subscription 
reached  nearly  a  thousand  in  six  months;  the  news- 
papers were  kind,  and  the  success  of  the  plan  suggested 
printing  a  pamphlet  modeled  on  similar  lines,  telling 
what  we  thought  about  things  in  general,  and  pub- 
lishers and  magazine-editors  in  particular. 
There  was  no  intention  at  first  of  issuing  more  than 
one  number  of  this  pamphlet,  but  to  get  it  through  the 
mails  at  magazine  rates  we  made  up  a  little  sub- 
scription-list and  asked  that  it  be  entered  at  the  post- 
office  at  East  Aurora  as  second-class  matter.  The 
postmaster  adjusted  his  brass-rimmed  spectacles,  read 
the  pamphlet,  and  decided  that  it  surely  was  second- 
class  matter. 

We  called  it  "  The  Philistine  "  because  we  were  going 
after  the  "  Chosen  People  "  in  literature.  It  was  Leslie 
Stephen  who  said,  "  The  term  Philistine  is  a  word  used 
xx 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


by  prigs  to  designate  people  they  do  not  like."  When  you 
call  a  man  a  bad  name,  you  are  that  thing — not  he. 
The  Smug  and  Snugly  Ensconced  Denizens  of  Union 
Square  called  me  a  Philistine,  and  I  said,  "  Yes,  I  am 
one,  if  a  Philistine  is  something  different  from  you." 
<I  My  helpers,  the  printers,  were  about  to  go  away  to 
pastures  new;  they  were  in  debt,  the  town  was  small, 
they  could  not  make  a  living.  So  they  offered  me  their 
outfit  for  a  thousand  dollars.  I  accepted  the  proposition. 
fl  I  decided  to  run  "  The  Philistine  "  Magazine  for  a 
year — to  keep  faith  with  the  misguided  and  hopeful 
parties  who  had  subscribed — and  then  quit.  To  fill 
in  the  time,  we  printed  a  book:  we  printed  it  like  a 
William  Morris  book — printed  it  just  as  well  as  we 
could.  It  was  cold  in  the  old  barn  where  we  first  set 
up  "  The  Philistine,"  so  I  built  a  little  building  like 
an  old  English  chapel  right  alongside  of  my  house. 
There  was  one  basement  and  a  room  upstairs.  I  wanted 
it  to  be  comfortable  and  pretty,  and  so  we  furnished 
our  little  shop  cozily.  We  had  four  girls  and  three  boys 
working  for  us  then.  The  Shop  was  never  locked,  and 
the  boys  and  girls  used  to  come  around  evenings.  It 
was  really  more  pleasant  than  at  home. 
I  brought  over  a  shelf  of  books  from  the  library.  Then 
I  brought  the  piano,  because  the  youngsters  wanted 
to  dance  33  53 

The  girls  brought   flowers   and   birds,   and   the  boys 
put  up  curtains  at  the  windows.  We  were  having  a 

xxi 


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lot  o'  fun,  with  new  subscriptions  coming  in  almost 
every  day,  and  once  in  a  while  an  order  for  a  book. 
<IThe  place  got  too  small  when  we  began  to  bind 
books,  so  we  built  a  wing  on  one  side;  then  a  wing 
on  the  other  side.  To  keep  the  three  carpenters  busy 
who  had  been  building  the  wings,  I  set  them  to  making 
furniture  for  the  place.  They  made  the  furniture  as 
good  as  they  could — folks  came  along  and  bought  it. 
<IThe  boys  picked  up  field-stones  and  built  a  great, 
splendid  fireplace  and  chimney  at  one  end  of  the  Shop. 
The  work  came  out  so  well  that  I  said,  "  Boys,  here 
is  a  great  scheme — these  hardheads  are  splendid 
building  material."  So  I  advertised  we  would  pay  a 
dollar  a  load  for  niggerheads.  The  farmers  began  to 
haul  stones;  they  hauled  more  stones,  and  at  last  they 
had  hauled  four  thousand  loads.  We  bought  all  the 
stone  in  the  dollar  limit,  bulling  the  market  on  boulders. 
*I  Three  stone  buildings  have  been  built,  another  is  in 
progress,  and  our  plans  are  made  to  build  an  art-gallery 
of  the  same  material — the  stones  that  the  builders 
rejected  33  33 

An  artist  blew  in  on  the  way  to  Nowhere,  his  baggage 
a  tomato-can.  He  thought  he  would  stop  over  for  a 
day  or  two — he  is  with  us  yet,  and  three  years  have 
gone  by  since  he  came,  and  now  we  could  not  do  without 
him.  Then  we  have  a  few  Remittance-Men,  sent  to  us 
from  a  distance,  without  return-tickets.  Some  of  these 
men  were  willing  to  do  anything  but  work — they 
xxii 


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offered  to  run  things,  to  preach,  to  advise,  to  make 
love  to  the  girls. 

We  bought  them  tickets  to  Chicago,  and  without 
violence  conducted  them  to  the  Four-o' Clock  train  33 
We  have  boys  who  have  been  expelled  from  school, 
blind  people,  deaf  people,  old  people,  jailbirds  and 
mental  defectives,  and  have  managed  to  set  them  all 
at  useful  work;  but  the  Remittance-Man  of  Good 
Family  who  smokes  cigarettes  in  bed  has  proved  too 
much  for  us — so  we  have  given  him  the  Four-o' Clock 
without  ruth. 

We  do  not  encourage  people  from  a  distance  who  want 
work  to  come  on — they  are  apt  to  expect  too  much. 
They  look  for  Utopia,  when  work  is  work,  here  as 
elsewhere.  There  is  just  as  much  need  for  patience, 
gentleness,  loyalty  and  love  here  as  anywhere.  Applica- 
tion, desire  to  do  the  right  thing,  a  willingness  to  help, 
and  a  well-curbed  tongue  are  as  necessary  in  East 
Aurora  as  in  Tuskegee. 

We  do  our  work  as  well  as  we  can,  live  one  day  at  a 
time,  and  try  to  be  kind. 


xxin 


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HE  village  of  East  Aurora,  Erie  County,  New 
York,  the  home  of  The  Roycrofters,  is  eight- 
een miles  southeast  of  the  city  of  Buffalo. 
The  place  has  a  population  of  about  three 
thousand  people. 

There  is  no  wealth  in  the  town  and  no  poverty.  In 
East  Aurora  there  are  six  churches,  with  pastors' 
salaries  varying  from  three  hundred  to  one  thousand 
dollars  a  year;  and  we  have  a  most  excellent  school. 
The  place  is  not  especially  picturesque  or  attractive, 
being  simply  a  representative  New  York  State  village. 
Lake  Erie  is  ten  miles  distant,  and  Cazenovia  Creek 
winds  its  lazy  way  along  by  the  village. 
The  land  around  East  Aurora  is  poor,  and  so  reduced 
in  purse  are  the  farmers  that  no  insurance-company 
will  insure  farm  property  in  Erie  County  under  any 
conditions  unless  the  farmer  has  some  business  out- 
side of  agriculture — the  experience  of  the  under- 
writers being  that  when  a  man  is  poor  enough,  he  is 
also  dishonest;  insure  a  farmer's  barn  in  New  York 
State,  and  there  is  a  strong  probability  that  he  will 
soon  invest  in  kerosene. 

However,  there  is  no  real  destitution,  for  a  farmer 
can  always  raise  enough  produce  to  feed  his  family, 
and  in  a  wooded  country  he  can  get  fuel,  even  if  he 
has  to  lift  it  between  the  dawn  and  the  day. 
Most  of  the  workers  in  the  Roycroft  Shop  are  chil- 
dren of  farming  folk,  and  it  is  needless  to  add  that 
xxiv 


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they  are  not  college-bred,  nor  have  they  had  the 
advantages  of  foreign  travel.  One  of  our  best  helpers, 
Uncle  Billy  Bushnell,  has  never  been  to  Niagara  Falls, 
and  does  not  care  to  go.  Uncle  Billy  says  if  you  stay 
at  home  and  do  your  work  well  enough,  the  world  will 
come  to  you;  which  aphorism  the  old  man  backs  up 
with  another,  probably  derived  from  experience,  to  the 
effect  that  a  man  is  a  fool  to  chase  after  women,  because, 
if  he  does  n't,  the  women  will  chase  after  him. 
The  wisdom  of  this  hard-headed  old  son  of  the  soil — 
who  abandoned  agriculture  for  art  at  seventy — is 
exemplified  in  the  fact  that  during  the  year  just  past, 
over  twenty-eight  thousand  pilgrims  have  visited  the 
Roycrof t  Shop — representing  every  State  and  Territory 
of  the  Union  and  every  civilized  country  on  the  globe, 
even  far-off  Iceland,  New  Zealand  and  the  Isle  of  Guam. 
*I  Three  hundred  ten  people  are  on  the  payroll  at  the 
present  writing.  The  principal  work  is  printing,  illumi- 
nating and  binding  books.  We  also  have  a  furniture- 
shop,  where  Mission  furniture  of  the  highest  grade  is 
made;  a  modeled-leather  shop,  where  the  most  wonder- 
ful creations  in  calfskin  are  to  be  seen ;  and  a  smithy, 
where  copper  utensils  of  great  beauty  are  hammered 
out  by  hand. 

Quite  as  important  as  the  printing  and  binding  is  the 
illuminating  of  initials  and  title-pages.  This  is  a  revival 
of  a  lost  art,  gone  with  so  much  of  the  artistic  work 
done  by  the  monks  of  the  olden  time.  Yet  there  is  a 

XXV 


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demand  for  such  work;  and  so  far  as  I  know,  we  are 
the  first  concern  in  America  to  take  up  the  hand- 
illumination  of  books  as  a  business.  Of  course  we  have 
had  to  train  our  helpers,  and  from  very  crude  attempts 
at  decoration  we  have  attained  to  a  point  where  the 
British  Museum  and  the  "  Bibliotheke  "  at  The  Hague 
have  deigned  to  order  and  pay  good  golden  guineas 
for  specimens  of  our  handicraft.  Very  naturally  we 
want  to  do  the  best  work  possible,  and  so  self-interest 
prompts  us  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  budding  genius. 
The  Roycroft  is  a  quest  for  talent. 
There  is  a  market  for  the  best,  and  the  surest  way, 
we  think,  to  get  away  from  competition  is  to  do  your 
work  a  little  better  than  the  other  fellow.  The  old 
tendency  to  make  things  cheaper,  instead  of  better, 
in  the  book  line  is  a  fallacy,  as  shown  in  the  fact  that 
within  ten  years  there  have  been  a  dozen  failures  of 
big  publishing-houses  in  the  United  States.  The  liabili- 
ties of  these  bankrupt  concerns  footed  the  fine  total  of 
fourteen  million  dollars.  The  man  who  made  more 
books  and  cheaper  books  than  any  one  concern  ever 
made,  had  the  felicity  to  fail  very  shortly,  with  liabili- 
ties of  something  over  a  million  dollars.  He  overdid  the 
thing  in  matter  of  cheapness — mistook  his  market. 
Our  motto  is,  "  Not  How  Cheap,  But  How  Good."  33 
This  is  the  richest  country  the  world  has  ever  known, 
far  richer  per  capita  than  England — lending  money  to 
Europe.  Once  Americans  were  all  shoddy — pioneers 
xxvi 


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have  to  be,  I  'm  told — but  now  only  a  part  of  us  are 
shoddy.  As  men  and  women  increase  in  culture  and 
refinement,  they  want  fewer  things,  and  they  want 
better  things.  The  cheap  article,  I  will  admit,  ministers 
to  a  certain  grade  of  intellect;  but  if  the  man  grows, 
there  will  come  a  time  when,  instead  of  a  great  many 
cheap  and  shoddy  things,  he  will  want  a  few  good 
things.  He  will  want  things  that  symbol  solidity,  truth, 
genuineness  and  beauty. 

The  Roy  crofters  have  many  opportunities  for  improve- 
ment, not  the  least  of  which  is  the  seeing,  hearing  and 
meeting  distinguished  people.  We  have  a  public  dining- 
room,  and  not  a  day  passes  but  men  and  women  of 
note  sit  at  meat  with  us.  At  the  evening  meal,  if  our 
visitors  are  so  inclined,  and  are  of  the  right  fiber,  I  ask 
them  to  talk.  And  if  there  is  no  one  else  to  speak,  I 
sometimes  read  a  little  from  William  Morris,  Shakes- 
peare, Walt  Whitman  or  Ruskin.  David  Bispham  has 
sung  for  us.  Maude  Adams  and  Minnie  Maddern 
Fiske  have  also  favored  us  with  a  taste  of  their  quality. 
Judge  Lindsey,  Alfred  Henry  Lewis,  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne,  Robert  Barr,  have  visited  us ;  but  to  give  a  list 
of  all  the  eminent  men  and  women  who  have  spoken, 
sung  or  played  for  us  would  lay  me  liable  for  infringe- 
ment in  printing  "  Who's  Who."  However,  let  me  name 
one  typical  incident.  The  Boston  Ideal  Opera  Company 
was  playing  in  Buffalo,  and  Henry  Clay  Barnabee  and 
half  a  dozen  of  his  players  took  a  run  out  to  East  Aurora. 

xxvii 


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They  were  shown  through  the  Shop  by  one  of  the  girls 
whose  work  it  is  to  receive  visitors.  A  young  woman  of 
the  company  sat  down  at  one  of  the  pianos  and  played. 
I  chanced  to  be  near  and  asked  Mr.  Barnabee  if  he 
would  not  sing,  and  graciously  he  answered,  "Fra 
Elbertus,  I  '11  do  anything  that  you  say."  I  gave  the 
signal  that  all  the  workers  should  quit  their  tasks  and 
meet  at  the  Chapel.  In  five  minutes  we  had  an  audience 
of  three  hundred — men  in  blouses  and  overalls,  girls 
in  big  aprons — a  very  jolly,  kindly,  receptive  company. 
<I  Mr.  Barnabee  was  at  his  best — I  never  saw  him  so 
funny.  He  sang,  danced,  recited,  and  told  stories  for 
forty  minutes.  The  Roycrofters  were,  of  course,  de- 
lighted 33  $3 

One  girl  whispered  to  me  as  she  went  out,  "  I  wonder 
what  great  sorrow  is  gnawing  at  Barnabee's  heart,  that 
he  is  so  wondrous  gay!  "  Need  I  say  that  the  girl  who 
made  the  remark  just  quoted  had  drunk  of  life's  cup 
to  the  very  lees?  We  have  a  few  such  with  us — and 
several  of  them  are  among  our  most  loyal  helpers. 


xxvm 


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1NE  fortuitous  event  that  has  worked  to  our 
decided  advantage  was  "  A  Message  to 
Garcia."  33  33 

This  article,  not  much  more  than  a  para- 
graph, covering  only  fifteen  hundred  words,  was  written 
one  evening  after  supper  in  a  single  hour.  It  was  the 
Twenty-second  of  February,  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety- 
nine,  Washington's  Birthday,  and  we  were  just  going 
to  press  with  the  March  "  Philistine."  The  thing 
leaped  hot  from  my  heart,  written  after  a  rather  trying 
day,  when  I  had  been  endeavoring  to  train  some  rather 
delinquent  helpers  in  the  way  they  should  go. 
The  immediate  suggestion,  though,  came  from  a  little 
argument  over  the  teacups  when  my  son  Bert  suggested 
that  Rowan  was  the  real  hero  of  the  Cuban  war.  Rowan 
had  gone  alone  and  done  the  thing — carried  the  mes- 
sage to  Garcia. 

It  came  to  me  like  a  flash!  Yes,  the  boy  is  right,  the 
hero  is  the  man  who  does  the  thing — does  his  work — 
carries  the  message.  *jf  I  got  up  from  the  table  and 
wrote  "  A  Message  to  Garcia." 

I  thought  so  little  of  it  that  we  ran  it  in  without  a  head- 
ing. The  edition  went  out,  and  soon  orders  began  to 
come  for  extra  March  "  Philistines,"  a  dozen,  fifty, 
a  hundred;  and  when  the  American  News  Company 
ordered  a  thousand  I  asked  one  of  my  helpers  which 
article  it  was  that  had  stirred  things  up.  *I  "It 's  that 
stuff  about  Garcia,"  he  said. 

xxix 


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The  next  day  a  telegram  came  from  George  H.  Daniels, 
of  the  New  York  Central  Railroad,  thus:  "  Give  price 
on  one  hundred  thousand  Rowan  article  in  pamphlet 
form — Empire  State  Express  advertisement  on  back — 
also  state  how  soon  can  ship." 

I  replied  giving  price  and  stated  we  could  supply  the 
pamphlets  in  two  years.  Our  facilities  were  small,  and 
a  hundred  thousand  pamphlets  looked  like  an  awful 
undertaking  53  53 

The  result  was  that  I  gave  Mr.  Daniels  permission 
to  reprint  the  article  in  his  own  way.  He  issued  it  in 
booklet  form  in  editions  of  one  hundred  thousand 
each.  Five  editions  were  sent  out,  and  then  he  got  out 
an  edition  of  half  a  million.  Two  or  three  of  these  half- 
million  lots  were  sent  out  by  Mr.  Daniels,  and  in  ad- 
dition the  article  was  reprinted  in  over  two  hundred 
magazines  and  newspapers.  It  has  been  translated  into 
eleven  languages,  and  been  given  a  total  circulation  of 
over  twenty- two  million  copies.  It  has  attained,  I 
believe,  a  larger  circulation  in  the  same  length  of  time 
than  any  written  article  has  ever  before  reached. 
Of  course,  we  can  not  tell  just  how  much  good  "  A 
Message  to  Garcia"  has  done  the  Shop,  but  it  probably 
doubled  the  circulation  of  "  The  Philistine."  I  do  not 
consider  it  by  any  means  my  best  piece  of  writing ;  but 
it  was  opportune — the  time  was  ripe.  Truth  demands  a 
certain  expression,  and  too  much  had  been  said  on  the 
other  side  about  the  downtrodden,  honest  man,  look- 

XXX 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


ing  for  work  and  not  being  able  to  find  it.  The  article 
in  question  states  the  other  side.  Men  are  needed — 
loyal,  honest  men  who  will  do  their  work.  "  The  world 
cries  out  for  him — the  man  who  can  carry  a  message  to 
Garcia."  53  53 

The  man  who  sent  the  message  and  the  man  who 
received  it  are  dead.  The  man  who  carried  it  is  still 
carrying  other  messages.  The  combination  of  theme, 
condition  of  the  country,  and  method  of  circulation 
was  so  favorable  that  their  conjunction  will  probably 
never  occur  again.  Other  men  will  write  better  articles, 
but  they  may  go  a-begging  for  lack  of  a  Daniels  t<> 
bring  them  to  judgment. 


XXXI 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


ONCERNING  my  own  personal  history, 
I  '11  not  tarry  long  to  tell.  It  has  been  too 
much  like  the  career  of  many  another  born 
in  the  semi-pioneer  times  of  the  Middle 
West,  to  attract  much  attention,  unless  one  should  go 
into  the  psychology  of  the  thing  with  intent  to  show 
the  evolution  of  a  soul.  But  that  will  require  a  book — 
and  some  day  I  '11  write  it,  after  the  manner  of  Saint 
Augustine  or  Jean  Jacques. 

But  just  now  I  '11  only  say  that  I  -was  born  in  Illinois, 
June  Nineteenth,  Eighteen  Hundred  Fifty-six.  My 
father  was  a  country  doctor,  whose  income  never 
exceeded  five  hundred  dollars  a  year.  I  left  school  at 
fifteen,  with  a  fair  hold  on  the  three  R's,  and  beyond 
this  my  education  in  "  manual  training  "  had  been 
good.  I  knew  all  the  forest-trees,  all  wild  animals  there- 
about, every  kind  of  fish,  frog,  fowl  or  bird  that  swam, 
ran  or  flew.  I  knew  every  kind  of  grain  or  vegetable, 
and  its  comparative  value.  I  knew  the  different  breeds 
of  cattle,  horses,  sheep  and  swine. 
I  could  teach  wild  cows  to  stand  while  being  milked; 
break  horses  to  saddle  or  harness;  could  sow,  plow  and 
reap;  knew  the  mysteries  of  apple-butter,  pumpkin- 
pie,  pickled  beef,  smoked  side-meat,  and  could  make 
lye  at  a  leach  and  formulate  soft  soap. 
That  is  to  say,  I  was  a  bright,  strong,  active  country 
boy  who  had  been  brought  up  to  help  his  father  and 
mother  get  a  living  for  a  large  family. 
xxxii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 

/ 
.x  

I  was  not  so  densely  ignorant — don't  feel  sorry  for 
country  boys :  God  is  often  on  their  side. 
At  fifteen  I  worked  on  a  farm  and  did  a  man's  work 
for  a  boy's  pay.  I  did  not  like  it  and  told  the  man  so. 
He  replied,  "  You  know  what  you  can  do." 
And  I  replied,  "  Yes."  I  went  westward  like  the  course 
of  empire  and  became  a  cowboy;  tired  of  this  and  went 
to  Chicago;  worked  in  a  printing-office;  peddled  soap 
from  house  to  house;  shoved  lumber  on  the  docks;  read 
all  the  books  I  could  find;  wrote  letters  back  to  country 
newspapers  and  became  a  reporter;  next  got  a  job  as 
traveling  salesman;  taught  in  a  district  school;  read 
Emerson,  Carlyle  and  Macaulay;  worked  in  a  soap- 
factory;  read  Shakespeare  and  committed  most  of 
"  Hamlet "  to  memory  with  an  eye  on  the  stage ;  became 
manager  of  the  soap-factory,  then  partner;  evolved  an 
Idea  for  the  concern  and  put  it  on  the  track  of  making 
millions — knew  it  was  going  to  make  millions — did 
not  want  them;  sold  out  my  interest  for  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars  and  went  to  Harvard  College;  tramped 
through  Europe;  wrote  for  sundry  newspapers;  penned 
two  books  (could  n't  find  a  publisher);  taught  night- 
school  in  Buffalo;  tramped  through  Europe  some  more 
and  met  William  Morris  (caught  it);  came  back  to 
East  Aurora  and  started  "  Chautauqua  Circles  ";  stud- 
ied Greek  and  Latin  with  a  local  clergyman;  raised 
trot  ting-horses ;  wrote  "  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes 
of  Good  Men  and  Great." 

xxxiii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


So  that  is  how  I  got  my  education,  such  as  it  is.  I  am  a 
graduate  of  the  University  of  Hard  Knocks,  and  I  Ve 
taken  several  postgraduate  courses.  I  have  worked  at 
five  different  trades  enough  to  be  familiar  with  the 
tools.  In  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-nine,  Tufts  Col- 
lege bestowed  on  me  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts;  but 
since  I  did  not  earn  the  degree,  it  really  does  not  count. 
9  I  have  never  been  sick  a  day,  never  lost  a  meal 
through  disinclination  to  eat,  never  consulted  a  doctor, 
never  used  tobacco  or  intoxicants.  My  work  has  never 
been  regulated  by  the  eight-hour  clause. 
Horses  have  been  my  only  extravagance,  and  I  ride 
horseback  daily  now:  a  horse  that  I  broke  myself,  that 
has  never  been  saddled  by  another,  and  that  has  never 
been  harnessed. 

My  best  friends  have  been  workingmen,  homely  women 
and  children.  My  father  and  mother  are  members  of 
my  household,  and  they  work  in  the  Shop  when  they 
are  so  inclined.  My  mother's  business  now  is  mostly  to 
care  for  the  flowers,  and  my  father  we  call  "  Physician 
to  The  Roy  crofters,"  as  he  gives  free  advice  and  attend- 
ance to  all  who  desire  his  services.  Needless  to  say,  his 
medicine  is  mostly  a  matter  of  the  mind.  Unfortunately 
for  him,  we  do  not  enjoy  poor  health,  so  there  is  very 
seldom  any  one  sick  to  be  cured.  Fresh  air  is  free,  and 
outdoor  exercise  is  not  discouraged. 


XXXIV 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


HE  Roycroft  Shop  and  belongings  represent 
an  investment  of  about  three  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  We  have  no  liabilities,  making 
it  a  strict  business  policy  to  sign  no  notes 
or  other  instruments  of  debt  that  may  in  the  future 
prove  inopportune  and  tend  to  disturb  digestion. 
Fortune  has  favored  us. 

First,  the  country  has  grown  tired  of  soft  platitude, 
silly  truism  and  undisputed  things  said  in  such  a 
solemn  way.  So  when  "The  Philistine  "  stepped  into 
the  ring  and  voiced  in  no  uncertain  tones  what  its 
editor  thought,  thinking  men  and  women  stopped  and 
listened.  Editors  of  magazines  refused  my  manuscript 
because  they  said  it  was  too  plain,  too  blunt,  some- 
times indelicate — it  would  give  offense,  subscribers 
would  cancel,  et  cetera.  To  get  my  thoughts  published 
I  had  to  publish  them  myself;  and  people  bought  for 
the  very  reason  for  which  the  editors  said  they  would 
cancel.  The  readers  wanted  brevity  and  plain  state- 
ment— the  editors  said  they  did  n't. 
The  editors  were  wrong.  They  failed  to  properly  diag- 
nose a  demand.  I  saw  the  demand  and  supplied  it — 
for  a  consideration. 

Next  I  believed  the  American  public.  A  portion  of  it, 
at  least,  wanted  a  few  good  and  beautiful  books  instead 
of  a  great  many  cheap  books.  The  truth  came  to  me  in 
the  early  Nineties,  when  John  B.  Alden  and  half  a  dozen 
other  publishers  of  cheap  books  went  to  the  wall.  I  read 

XXXV 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


the  R.  G.  Dun  &  Company  bulletin  and  I  said,  "  The 
publishers  have  mistaken  their  public — we  want  better 
books,  not  cheaper."  In  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety- 
two,  I  met  William  Morris,  and  after  that  I  was  sure 
I  was  right. 

Again  I  had  gauged  the  public  correctly — the  pub- 
lishers were  wrong,  as  wrong  as  the  editors.  There  was 
a  market  for  the  best,  and  the  problem  was  to  supply 
it.  At  first  I  bound  my  books  in  paper  covers  and  simple 
boards.  Men  wrote  to  me  wanting  fine  bindings.  I  said, 

1  There  is  a  market  in  America  for  the  best — cheap 
boards,  covered  with  cloth,  stamped  by  machinery  in 
gaudy  tinsel  and  gilt,  are  not  enough."  I  discovered 
that  nearly  all  the  bookbinders  were  dead.  I  found 
five  hundred  people  in  a  book-factory  in  Chicago 
binding  books,  but  not  a  bookbinder  among  them. 
They  simply  fed  the  books  into  hoppers  and  shot  them 
out  of  chutes,  and  said  they  were  bound. 
Next  the  public  wanted  to  know  about  this  thing — 

'  What  are  you  folks  doing  out  there  in  that  buck- 
wheat town?  "  Since  my  twentieth  year  I  have  had 
one  eye  on  the  histrionic  stage.  I  could  talk  in  public 
a  bit,  had  made  political  speeches,  given  entertain- 
ments in  crossroads  schoolhouses,  made  temperance 
harangues,  was  always  called  upon  to  introduce  the 
speaker  of  the  evening,  and  several  times  had  given 
readings  from  my  own  amusing  works  for  the  modest 
stipend  of  ten  dollars  and  keep.  I  would  have  taken 
xxxvi 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


the  lecture  platform  had  it  not  been  nailed  down.  <I  In 
Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-eight,  my  friend  Major 
Pond  wanted  to  book  me  on  a  partnership  deal  at  the 
Waldorf-Astoria.  I  did  n't  want  to  speak  there — I  had 
been  saying  unkind  things  in  "  The  Philistine  "  about 
the  Waldorf-Astoria  folks.  But  the  Major  went  ahead 
and  made  arrangements.  I  expected  to  be  mobbed. 
But  Mr.  Boldt,  the  manager  of  the  hotel,  had  placed 
a  suite  of  rooms  at  my  disposal  without  money  and 
without  price.  He  treated  me  most  cordially;  never 
referred  to  the  outrageous  things  I  had  said  about  his 
tavern;  assured  me  that  he  enjoyed  my  writings,  and 
told  me  of  the  pleasure  he  had  in  welcoming  me. 
Thus  did  he  heap  hot  cinders  upon  my  occiput.  The 
Astor  gallery  seats  eight  hundred  people.  Major  Pond 
had  packed  in  nine  hundred  at  one  dollar  each — three 
hundred  were  turned  away.  After  the  lecture  the  Major 
awaited  me  in  the  anteroom,  fell  on  my  neck  and  rained 
Pond's  Extract  down  my  back,  crying:  "Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 
Why  did  n't  we  charge  them  two  dollars  apiece!  " 
The  next  move  was  to  make  a  tour  of  the  principal 
cities  under  Major  Pond's  management.  Neither  of  us 
lost  money — the  Major  surely  did  not. 
Last  season  I  gave  eighty-one  lectures,  with  a  net 
profit  to  myself  of  a  little  over  ten  thousand  dollars. 
I  spoke  at  Tremont  Temple  in  Boston,  to  twenty- two 
hundred  people;  at  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York;  at  Cen- 
tral Music  Hall,  Chicago,  I  spoke  to  all  the  house  would 

xxxvii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


hold;  at  Chautauqua,  my  audience  was  five  thousand 
people.  It  will  be  noted  by  the  Discerning  that  my 
lectures  have  been  of  double  importance,  in  that  they 
have  given  an  income  and  at  the  same  time  advertised 
the  Roycrof  t  Wares,  fl  The  success  of  the  Roycrof  t  Shop 
has  not  been  brought  about  by  any  one  scheme  or  plan. 
The  business  is  really  a  combination  of  several  ideas, 
any  one  of  which  would  make  a  paying  enterprise  in 
itself.  So  it  stands  about  thus: 

First,  the  printing  and  publication  of  three  magazines. 
^f  Second,  the  printing  of  books  (it  being  well  known 
that  some  of  the  largest  publishers  in  America — Scrib- 
ner   and   Appleton,   for  instance — have   no   printing- 
plants,  but  have  the  work  done  for  them). 
Third,  the  publication  of  books. 
Fourth,  the  artistic  binding  of  books. 
Fifth,   authorship.   Since   I    began  printing  my   own 
manuscript,  there  is  quite  an  eager  demand  for  my 
writing,  so  I  do  a  little  of  Class  B  for  various  publishers 
and  editors. 

Sixth,  the  Lecture  Lyceum. 

Seventh,  blacksmithing,  carpenter-work  •  and  basket- 
weaving.  These  industries  have  sprung  up  under  the 
Roycroft  care  as  a  necessity.  Men  and  women  in  the 
village  came  to  us  and  wanted  work,  and  we  simply 
gave  them  opportunity  to  do  the  things  they  could  do 
best.  We  have  found  a  market  for  all  our  wares,  so  no 
line  of  work  has  ever  been  a  bill  of  expense, 
xxxviii 


I  want  no  better  clothing,  no  better  food,  no  more  com- 
forts and  conveniences  than  my  helpers  and  fellow- 
workers  have.  I  would  be  ashamed  to  monopolize  a 
luxury — to  take  a  beautiful  work  of  art,  say  a  painting 
or  a  marble  statue,  and  keep  it  for  my  own  pleasure 
and  for  the  select  few  I  might  invite  to  see  my  beautiful 
things.  Art  is  for  all — beauty  is  for  all.  Harmony  in  all 
of  its  manifold  forms  should  be  like  a  sunset — free  to 
all  who  can  drink  it  in.  The  Roycroft  Shop  is  for  The 
Roycrofters,  and  each  is  limited  only  by  his  capacity 
to  absorb  33  33 


KXX1X 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


RT  is  the  expression  of  man's  joy  in  his  work, 
and  all  the  joy  and  love  that  you  can  weave 
into  a  fabric  comes  out  again  and  belongs  to 
the  individual  who  has  the  soul  to  appreci- 
ate it.  Art  is  beauty;  and  beauty  is  a  gratification,  a 
peace  and  a  solace  to  every  normal  man  and  woman. 
Beautiful  sounds,  beautiful  colors,  beautiful  propor- 
tions, beautiful  thoughts — how  our  souls  hunger  for 
them!  Matter  is  only  mind  in  an  opaque  condition;  and 
all  beauty  is  but  a  symbol  of  spirit.  You  can  not  get 
joy  from  feeding  things  all  day  into  a  machine.  You 
must  let  the  man  work  with  hand  and  brain,  and  then 
out  of  the  joy  of  this  marriage  of  hand  and  brain,  beauty 
will  be  born.  It  tells  of  a  desire  for  harmony,  peace, 
beauty,  wholeness — holiness. 
Art  is  the  expression  of  man's  joy  in  his  work. 
When  you  read  a  beautiful  poem  that  makes  your  heart 
throb  with  gladness  and  gratitude,  you  are  simply 
partaking  of  the  emotion  that  the  author  felt  when  he 
wrote  it.  To  possess  a  piece  of  work  that  the  workman 
made  in  joyous  animation  is  a  source  of  joy  to  the 
possessor  33  33 

And  this  love  of  the  work  done  by  the  marriage  of  hand 
and  brain  can  never  quite  go  out  of  fashion — for  we 
are  men  and  women,  and  our  hopes  and  aims  and  final 
destiny  are  at  last  one.  Where  one  enjoys,  all  enjoy; 
where  one  suffers,  all  suffer. 

Say  what  you  will  of  the  coldness  and  selfishness  of 
x) 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


men,  at  the  last  we  long  for  companionship  and  the 
fellowship  of  our  kind.  We  are  lost  children,  and  when 
alone  and  the  darkness  gathers,  we  long  for  the  close 
relationship  of  the  brothers  and  sisters  we  knew  in  our 
childhood,  and  cry  for  the  gentle  arms  that  once  rocked 
us  to  sleep.  Men  are  homesick  amid  this  sad,  mad  rush 
for  wealth  and  place  and  power.  The  calm  of  the  coun- 
try invites,  and  we  would  fain  do  with  less  things,  and 
go  back  to  simplicity,  and  rest  our  tired  heads  in  the 
lap  of  Mother  Nature. 

Life  is  expression.  Life  is  a  movement  outward,  an  un- 
folding, a  development.  To  be  tied  down,  pinned  to  a 
task  that  is  repugnant,  and  to  have  the  shrill  voice  of 
Necessity  whistling  eternally  in  your  ears,  "  Do  this  or 
starve,"  is  to  starve;  for  it  starves  the  heart,  the  soul, 
and  all  the  higher  aspirations  of  your  being  pine  away 
and  die  S3  $£ 

At  the  Roycroft  Shop  the  workers  are  getting  an  edu- 
cation by  doing  things.  Work  should  be  the  spontaneous 
expression  of  a  man's  best  impulses.  We  grow  only 
through  exercise,  and  every  faculty  that  is  exercised 
becomes  strong,  and  those  not  used  atrophy  and  die. 
Thus  how  necessary  it  is  that  we  should  exercise  our 
highest  and  best!  To  develop  the  brain  we  have  to 
exercise  the  body.  Every  muscle,  every  organ,  has  its 
corresponding  convolution  in  the  brain.  To  develop 
the  mind,  we  must  use  the  body.  Manual  training  is 
essentially  moral  training;  and  physical  work  is,  at  its 

xli 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


best,  mental,  moral  and  spiritual — and  these  are  truths 
so  great  and  yet  so  simple  that  until  yesterday  many 
wise  men  did  not  recognize  them. 

At  the  Roycroft  Shop  we  are  reaching  out  for  an  all- 
round  development  through  work  and  right  living. 
And  we  have  found  it  a  good  expedient — a  wise  business 
policy.  Sweat-shop  methods  can  never  succeed  in  pro- 
ducing beautiful  things.  And  so  the  management  of 
the  Roycroft  Shop  surrounds  the  workers  with  beauty, 
allows  many  liberties,  encourages  cheerfulness  and  tries 
to  promote  kind  thoughts,  simply  because  it  has  been 
found  that  these  things  are  transmuted  into  good,  and 
come  out  again  at  the  finger-tips  of  the  workers  in  beau- 
tiful results.  So  we  have  pictures,  statuary,  flowers, 
ferns,  palms,  birds,  and  a  piano  in  every  room.  We  have 
the  best  sanitary  appliances  that  money  can  buy;  we 
have  bathrooms,  shower-baths,  library,  rest-rooms. 
Every  week  we  have  concerts,  dances,  lectures. 
Besides  being  a  workshop,  the  Roycroft  is  a  School. 
We  are  following  out  a  dozen  distinct  lines  of  study, 
and  every  worker  in  the  place  is  enrolled  as  a  member 
of  one  or  more  classes.  There  are  no  fees  to  pupils,  but 
each  pupil  purchases  his  own  books — the  care  of  his 
books  and  belongings  being  considered  a  part  of  one's 
education.  All  the  teachers  are  workers  in  the  Shop, 
and  are  volunteers,  teaching  without  pay,  beyond 
what  each  receives  for  his  regular  -labor. 
The  idea  of  teaching  we  have  found  is  a  great  benefit — 
xlii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


to  the  teacher.  The  teacher  gets  most  out  of  the  lessons. 
Once  a  week  there  is  a  faculty  meeting,  when  each 
teacher  gives  in  a  verbal  report  of  his  stewardship.  It 
is  responsibility  that  develops  one,  and  to  know  that 
your  pupils  expect  you  to  know  is  a  great  incentive  to 
study.  Then  teaching  demands  that  you  shall  give — 
give  yourself — and  he  who  gives  most  receives  most. 
We  deepen  our  impressions  by  recounting  them,  and 
he  who  teaches  others  teaches  himself.  I  am  never  quite 
so  proud  as  when  some  one  addresses  me  as  "  teacher." 
We  try  to  find  out  what  each  person  can  do  best,  what 
he  wants  to  do,  and  then  we  encourage  him  to  put  his 
best  into  it — also  to  do  something  else  besides  his 
specialty,  finding  rest  in  change. 

The  thing  that  pays  should  be  the  expedient  thing, 
and  the  expedient  thing  should  be  the  proper  and  right 
thing.  That  which  began  with  us  as  a  matter  of  ex- 
pediency is  often  referred  to  as  a  "  philanthropy."  I  do 
not  like  the  word,  and  wish  to  state  here  that  the  Roy- 
croft  is  in  no  sense  a  charity — I  do  not  believe  in  giving 
any  man  something  for  nothing.  You  give  a  man  a 
dollar  and  the  man  will  think  less  of  you  because  he 
thinks  less  of  himself;  but  if  you  give  him  a  chance  to 
earn  a  dollar,  he  will  think  more  of  himself  and  more  of 
you.  The  only  way  to  help  people  is  to  give  them  a 
chance  to  help  themselves.  So  the  Roy  croft  Idea  is  one 
of  reciprocity — you  help  me  and  I  '11  help  you.  We  will 
not  be  here  forever,  anyway;  soon  Death,  the  kind  old 

xliii 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 


Nurse,  will  come  and  rock  us  all  to  sleep,  and  we  had 
better  help  one  another  while  we  may:  we  are  going  the 
same  way — let 's  go  hand  in  hand! 


xliv 


Jhurnre* 


If 

TQtn  and  (fiirrat 


GEORGE  ELIOT 


"  May  I  reach 

That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  good  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world.' 


GEORGE   ELIOT 


GEORGE  ELIOT 


ARWICKSHIRE  gave  to  the  world 
William  Shakespeare.  It  also  gave 
Mary  Ann  Evans.  No  one  will 
question  that  Shakespeare's  is  the 
greatest  name  in  English  literature; 
and  among  writers  living  or  dead, 
in  England  or  out  of  it,  no  woman 
has  ever  shown  us  power  equal  to 
that  of  George  Eliot,  in  the  subtle  clairvoyance  which 
divines  the  inmost  play  of  passions,  the  experience  that 
shows  human  capacity  for  contradiction,  and  the  indul- 
gence that  is  merciful  because  it  understands. 
Shakespeare  lived  three  hundred  years  ago.  According 
to  the  records,  his  father,  in  Fifteen  Hundred  Sixty- 
three,  owned  a  certain  house  in  Henley  Street,  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  Hence  we  infer  that  William  Shakespeare  was 
born  there.  And  in  all  our  knowledge  of  Shakespeare's 
early  life  (or  later)  we  prefix  the  words,  "  Hence  we 
infer."  53  53 

That  the  man  knew  all  the  sciences  of  his  day,  and  had 
such  a  knowledge  of  each  of  the  learned  professions 
that  all  have  claimed  him  as  their  own,  we  realize  33 
He  evidently  was  acquainted  with  five  different  lan- 
guages, and  the  range  of  his  intellect  was  worldwide; 
but  where  did  he  get  this  vast  erudition?  We  do  not 
know,  and  we  excuse  ourselves  by  saying  that  he  lived 

49 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


three  hundred  years  ago.  fj  George  Eliot  lived — yester- 
day, and  we  know  no  more  about  her  youthful  days 
than  we  do  of  that  other  child  of  Warwickshire. 
One  biographer  tells  us  that  she  was  born  in  Eighteen 
Hundred  Nineteen,  another  in  Eighteen  Hundred 
Twenty,  and  neither  state  the  day;  whereas  a  recent 
writer  in  the  "  Pall  Mall  Budget "  graciously  bestows  on 
us  the  useful  information  that  "William  Shakespeare  was 
born  on  the  Twenty-first  day  of  April,  Fifteen  Hundred 
Sixty-three,  at  fifteen  minutes  of  two  on  a  stormy 
morning."  3$  3& 

Concise  statements  of  facts  are  always  valuable,  but  we 
have  none  such  concerning  the  early  life  of  George  Eliot. 
There  is  even  a  shadow  over  her  parentage,  for  no  less  an 
authority  than  the  "American  Cyclopedia  Annual,"  for 
Eighteen  Hundred  Eighty,  boldly  proclaims  that  she 
was  not  a  foundling  and,  moreover,  that  she  was  not 
adopted  by  a  rich  retired  clergyman  who  gave  her  a 
splendid  schooling.  Then  the  writer  dives  into  obscurity, 
but  presently  reappears  and  adds  that  he  does  not  know 
where  she  got  her  education.  For  all  of  which  we  are 
very  grateful. 

Shakespeare  left  five  signatures,  each  written  in  a  dif- 
ferent way,  and  now  there  is  a  goodly  crew  who  spell 
it  "  Bacon." 

And  likewise  we  do  not  know  whether  it  is  Mary  Ann 
Evans,  Mary  Anne  Evans  or  Marian  Evans,  for  she 
herself  is  said  to  have  used  each  form  at  various  times. 
50 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


William  Winter — gentle  critic,  poet,  scholar — tells  us 
that  the  Sonnets  show  a  dark  spot  in  Shakespeare's 
moral  record.  And  if  I  remember  rightly,  similar  things 
have  been  hinted  at  in  sewing-circles  concerning  George 
Eliot.  Then  they  each  found  the  dew  and  sunshine  in 
London  that  caused  the  flowers  of  genius  to  blossom. 
The  early  productions  of  both  were  published  anony- 
mously, and  lastly  they  both  knew  how  to  transmute 
thought  into  gold,  for  they  died  rich. 
Lady  Godiva  rode  through  the  streets  of  Coventry,  but 
I  walked — walked  all  tne  way  from  Stratford,  by  way  of 
Warwick  (call  it  Warrick,  please)  and  Kenilworth 
Castle  33  33 

I  stopped  overnight  at  that  quaint  and  curious  little 
inn  just  across  from  the  castle  entrance.  The  good  land- 
lady gave  me  the  same  apartment  that  was  occupied  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  when  he  came  here  and  wrote  the  first 
chapter  of  "  Kenilworth." 

The  little  room  had  pretty,  white  chintz  curtains  tied 
with  blue  ribbon,  and  similar  stuff  draped  the  mirror. 
The  bed  was  a  big  canopy  affair — I  had  to  stand  on  a 
chair  in  order  to  dive  off  into  its  feathery  depths — 
everything  was  very  neat  and  clean,  and  the  dainty 
linen  had  a  sweet  smell  of  lavender.  I  took  one  parting 
look  out  through  the  open  window  at  the  ivy-mantled 
towers  of  the  old  castle,  which  were  all  sprinkled  with 
silver  by  the  rising  moon,  and  then  I  fell  into  gentlest 
sleep  33  33 

51 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


I  dreamed  of  playing  "  I -spy  "  through  Kenil  worth 
Castle  with  Shakespeare,  Walter  Scott,  Mary  Ann 
Evans  and  a  youth  I  used  to  know  in  boyhood  by  the 
name  of  Bill  Hursey.  We  chased  each  other  across  the 
drawbridge,  through  the  portcullis,  down  the  slippery 
stones  into  the  donjon-keep,  around  the  moat,  and  up 
the  stone  steps  to  the  topmost  turret  of  the  towers. 
Finally  Shakespeare  was  "it,"  but  he  got  mad  and 
refused  to  play.  Walter  Scott  said  it  was  "  no  fair,"  and 
Bill  Hursey  thrust  out  the  knuckle  of  one  middle  finger 
in  a  very  threatening  way  and  offered  to  "  do  "  the  boy 
from  Stratford.  Then  Mary  Ann  rushed  in  to  still  the 
tempest.  There  's  no  telling  what  would  have  happened 
had  not  the  landlady  just  then  rapped  at  my  door  and 
asked  if  I  had  called.  I  awoke  with  a  start  and  with  the 
guilty  feeling  that  I  had  been  shouting  in  my  sleep.  I 
saw  it  was  morning.  "  No — that  is,  yes;  my  shaving- 
water,  please." 

After  breakfast  the  landlady's  boy  offered  for  five 
shillings  to  take  me  in  his  donkey-cart  to  the  birthplace 
of  George  Eliot.  He  explained  that  the  house  was  just 
seven  miles  north;  but  Baalam's  express  is  always  slow, 
so  I  concluded  to  walk.  At  Coventry  a  cab-owner  pro- 
posed to  show  me  the  house,  which  he  declared  was 
near  Kenilworth,  for  twelve  shillings.  The  advantages 
of  seeing  Kenilworth  at  the  same  time  were  dwelt  upon 
at  great  length  by  cabby,  but  I  harkened  not  to  the 
voice  of  the  siren.  I  got  a  good  lunch  at  the  hotel,  and 
52 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


asked  the  innkeeper  if  he  could  tell  me  where  George 
Eliot  was  born.  He  did  not  know,  but  said  he  could  show 
me  a  house  around  the  corner  where  a  family  of  Eliots 
lived  33  33 

Then  I  walked  on  to  Nuneaton.  A  charming  walk  it 
was;  past  quaint  old  houses,  some  with  straw-thatched 
roofs,  others  tile — roses  clambering  over  the  doors  and 
flowering  hedgerows  white  with  hawthorn-flowers  33 
Occasionally,  I  met  a  farmer's  cart  drawn  by  one  of 
those  great,  fat,  gentle  Shire  horses  that  George  Eliot 
has  described  so  well.  All  spoke  of  peace  and  plenty, 
quiet  and  rest.  The  green  fields  and  the  flowers,  the 
lark-song  and  the  sunshine,  the  dipping  willows  by  the 
stream,  and  the  arch  of  the  old  stone  bridge  as  I 
approached  the  village — all  these  I  had  seen  and  known 
and  felt  before  from  "  Mill  on  the  Floss." 
I  found  the  house  where  they  say  the  novelist  was  born. 
A  plain,  whitewashed,  stone  structure,  built  two  hun- 
dred years  ago;  two  stories,  the  upper  chambers  low, 
with  gable-windows;  a  little  garden  at  the  side  bright 
with  flowers,  where  sweet  marjoram  vied  with  onions 
and  beets ;  all  spoke  of  humble  thrift  and  homely  cares. 
In  front  was  a  great  chestnut-tree,  and  in  the  roadway 
near  were  two  ancient  elms  where  saucy  crows  were 
building  a  nest. 

Here,  after  her  mother  died,  Mary  Ann  Evans  was 
housekeeper.  Little  more  than  a  child — tall,  timid,  and 
far  from  strong — she  cooked  and  scrubbed  and  washed, 

53 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


and  was  herself  the  mother  to  brothers  and  sisters.  Her 
father  was  a  carpenter  by  trade  and  agent  for  a  rich 
landowner.  He  was  a  stern  man — orderly,  earnest, 
industrious,  studious.  On  rides  about  the  country  he 
would  take  the  tall,  hollow-eyed  girl  with  him,  and  at 
such  times  he  would  talk  to  her  of  the  great  outside 
world  where  wondrous  things  were  done.  The  child 
toiled  hard,  but  found  time  to  read  and  question — and 
there  is  always  time  to  think.  Soon  she  had  outgrown 
some  of  her  good  father's  beliefs,  and  this  grieved  him 
greatly;  so  much,  indeed,  that  her  extra-loving  attention 
to  his  needs,  in  a  hope  to  neutralize  his  displeasure,  only 
irritated  him  the  more.  And  if  there  is  soft,  subdued 
.sadness  in  much  of  George  Eliot's  writing  we  can  guess 
the  reason.  The  onward  and  upward  march  ever  means 
sad  separation. 

When  Mary  Ann  was  blossoming  into  womanhood  her 
father  moved  over  near  Coventry,  and  here  the  ambi- 
tious girl  first  found  companionship  in  her  intellectual 
desires.  Here  she  met  men  and  women,  older  than  her- 
self, who  were  animated,  earnest  thinkers.  They  read 
and  then  they  discussed,  and  then  they  spoke  the  things 
that  they  felt  were  true.  Those  eight  years  at  Coventry 
transformed  the  awkward  country  girl  into  a  woman  of 
intellect  and  purpose.  She  knew  somewhat  of  all 
sciences,  all  philosophies,  and  she  had  become  a  pro- 
ficient scholar  in  German  and  French.  How  did  she 
acquire  this  knowledge?  How  is  any  education  acquired 
54 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


if  not  through  effort  prompted  by  desire?  <JShe  had 
already  translated  Strauss's  "  Life  of  Jesus  "  in  a  manner 
that  was  acceptable  to  the  author.  When  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  came  to  Coventry  to  lecture,  he  was  enter- 
tained at  the  same  house  where  Miss  Evans  was  stop- 
ping. Her  brilliant  conversation  pleased  him,  and  when 
she  questioned  the  wisdom  of  a  certain  passage  in  one  of 
his  essays  the  gentle  philosopher  turned,  smiled,  and 
said  that  he  had  not  seen  it  in  that  light  before;  perhaps 
she  was  right. 

*  What  is  your  favorite  book?  "  asked  Emerson. 
"  Rousseau's  '  Confessions/  "  answered  Mary  instantly. 
It  was  Emerson's  favorite,  too;  but  such  honesty  from 
a  young  woman!  It  was  queer. 

Mr.  Emerson  never  forgot  Miss  Evans  of  Coventry,  and 
ten  years  after,  when  a  zealous  reviewer  proclaimed  her 
the  greatest  novelist  in  England,  the  sage  of  Concord 
said  something  that  sounded  like  "  I  told  you  so."  3& 
Miss  Evans  had  made  visits  to  London  from  time  to 
time  with  her  Coventry  friends.  When  twenty-eight 
years  old,  after  one  such  visit  to  London,  she  came  back 
to  the  country  tired  and  weary,  and  wrote  this  most 
womanly  wish:  "  My  only  ardent  desire  is  to  find  some 
feminine  task  to  discharge;  some  possibility  of  devoting 
myself  to  some  one  and  making  that  one  purely  and 
calmly  happy." 

But  now  her  father  was  dead  and  her  income  was  very 
scanty.  She  did  translating,  and  tried  the  magazines 

55 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


with  articles  that  generally  came  back  respectfully 
declined  53  53 

Then  an  offer  came  as  sub-editor  of  the  "  Westminster 
Review."  It  was  steady  work  and  plenty  of  it,  and  this 
was  what  she  desired.  She  went  to  London  and  lived  in 
the  household  of  her  employer,  Mr.  Chapman.  Here  she 
had  the  opportunity  of  meeting  many  brilliant  people: 
Carlyle  and  his  "  Jeannie  Welsh,"  the  Martineaus, 
Grote,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mill,  Huxley,  Mazzini,  Louis 
Blanc.  Besides  these  were  two  young  men  who  must  not 
be  left  out  when  we  sum  up  the  influences  that  evolved 
this  woman's  genius. 

She  was  attracted  to  Herbert  Spencer  at  once.  He  was 
about  her  age,  and  their  admiration  for  each  other  was 
mutual.  Miss  Evans,  writing  to  a  friend  in  Eighteen 
Hundred  Fifty- two,  says,  "  Spencer  is  kind,  he  is 
delightful,  and  I  always  feel  better  after  being  with  him, 
and  we  have  agreed  together  that  there  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  see  each  other  as  often  as  we  wish." 
And  then  later  she  again  writes:  "  The  bright  side  of  my 
life,  after  the  affection  for  my  old  friends,  is  the  new  and 
delightful  friendship  which  I  have  found  in  Herbert 
Spencer.  We  see  each  other  every  day,  and  in  everything 
we  enjoy  a  delightful  comradeship.  If  it  were  not  for 
him  my  life  would  be  singularly  arid." 
But  about  this  time  another  man  appeared  on  the 
scene,  and  were  it  not  for  this  other  man,  who  was 
introduced  to  Miss  Evans  by  Spencer,  the  author  of 
56 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


"  Synthetic  Philosophy  "  might  not  now  be  spoken  of  in 
the  biographical  dictionaries  as  having  been  "  wedded  to 
science."  33  S& 

It  was  not  love  at  first  sight,  for  George  Henry  Lewes 
made  a  decidedly  unfavorable  impression  on  Miss  Evans 
at  their  first  meeting.  He  was  small,  his  features  were 
insignificant,  he  had  whiskers  like  an  anarchist  and  a 
mouthful  of  crooked  teeth ;  his  personal  habits  were  far 
from  pleasant.  It  was  this  sort  of  thing,  Dickens  said, 
that  caused  his  first  wife  to  desert  him  and  finally  drove 
her  into  insanity. 

But  Lewes  had  a  brilliant  mind.  He  was  a  linguist,  a 
scientist,  a  novelist,  a  poet  and  a  wit.  He  had  written 
biography,  philosophy  and  a  play.  He  had  been  a 
journalist,  a  lecturer  and  even  an  actor.  Thackeray 
declared  that  if  he  should  see  Lewes  perched  on  a  white 
elephant  in  Piccadilly  he  should  not  be  in  the  least 
surprised  5$  5$ 

After  having  met  Miss  Evans  several  times,  Mr.  Lewes 
saw  the  calm  depths  of  her  mind  and  he  asked  her  to 
correct  proofs  for  him.  She  did  so  and  discovered  that 
there  was  merit  in  his  work.  She  corrected  more  proofs, 
and  when  a  woman  begins  to  assist  a  man  the  danger- 
line  is  being  approached.  Close  observers  noted  that  a 
change  was  coming  over  the  bohemian  Lewes.  He  had 
his  whiskers  trimmed,  his  hair  was  combed,  and  the 
bright  yellow  necktie  had  been  discarded  for  a  clean  one 
of  modest  brown,  and,  sometimes,  his  boots  were 

57 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


blacked.  In  July,  Eighteen  Hundred  Fifty-four,  Mr. 
Chapman  received  a  letter  from  his  sub-editor  resigning 
her  position,  and  Miss  Evans  notified  some  of  her 
closest  friends  that  hereafter  she  wished  to  be  considered 
the  wife  of  Mr.  Lewes.  She  was  then  in  her  thirty-sixth 
year  5&  S& 

The  couple  disappeared,  having  gone  to  Germany. 
Many  people  were  shocked.  Some  said,  "  We  knew  it  all 
the  time,"  and  when  Herbert  Spencer  was  informed  of 
the  fact  he  exclaimed,  "Goodness  me!"  a^d  said — 
nothing  53  S3 

After  six  months  spent  at  Weimar  and  other  literary 
centers,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewes  returned  to  England  and 
began  housekeeping  at  Richmond.  Any  one  who  views 
their  old  quarters  there  will  see  how  very  plainly  and 
economically  they  were  forced  to  live.  But  they  worked 
hard,  and  at  this  time  the  future  novelist's  desire  seemed 
only  to  assist  her  husband.  That  she  developed  the 
manly  side  of  his  nature  none  can  deny.  They  were  very 
happy,  these  two,  as  they  wrote,  and  copied,  and 
studied,  and  toiled. 

Three  years  passed,  and  Mrs.  Lewes  wrote  to  a  friend : 
"  I  am  very  happy;  happy  with  the  greatest  happiness 
that  life  can  give — the  complete  sympathy  and  affection 
of  a  man  whose  mind  stimulates  mine  and  keeps  up  in 
me  a  wholesome  activity." 

Mr.  Lewes  knew  the  greatness  of  his  helpmeet.  She 
herself  did  not.  He  urged  her  to  write  a  story;  she 
58 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


hesitated,  and  at  last  attempted  it.  They  read  the  first 
chapter  together  and  cried  over  it.  Then  she  wrote 
more  and  always  read  her  husband  the  chapters  as  they 
were  turned  off.  He  corrected,  encouraged,  and  found  a 
publisher.  But  why  should  I  tell  about  it  here?  It 's  all 
in  the  "  Britannica" — how  the  gentle  beauty  and  sympa- 
thetic insight  of  her  work  touched  the  hearts  of  great 
and  lowly  alike,  and  of  how  riches  began  flowing  in 
upon  her.  For  one  book  she  received  forty  thousand 
dollars,  and  her  income  after  fortune  smiled  upon  her 
was  never  less  than  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
Lewes  was  her  secretary,  her  protector,  her  slave  and 
her  inspiration.  He  kept  at  bay  .the  public  that  would 
steal  her  time,  and  put  out  of  her  reach,  at  her  request, 
all  reviews,  good  or  bad,  and  shielded  her  from  the 
interviewer,  the  curiosity-seeker,  and  the  greedy  finan- 
cier 33  33 

The  reason  why  she  at  first  wrote  under  a  nom  de  plume 
is  plain.  To  the  great,  wallowing  world  she  was  neither 
Miss  Evans  nor  Mrs.  Lewes,  so  she  dropped  both  names 
as  far  as  title-pages  were  concerned  and  used  a  man's 
name  instead — hoping  better  to  elude  the  pack. 
When  "  Adam  Bede  "  came  out,  a  resident  of  Nuneaton 
purchased  a  copy  and  at  once  discovered  local  earmarks. 
The  scenes  described,  the  flowers,  the  stone  walls,  the 
bridges,  the  barns,  the  people — all  was  Nuneaton.  Who 
wrote  it>  No  one  knew,  but  it  was  surely  some  one  in 
Nuneaton.  So  they  picked  out  a  Mr.  Liggins,  a  solemn- 

59 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


faced  preacher,  who  was  always  about  to  do  something 
great,  and  they  said  "  Liggins."  Soon  all  London  said 
"  Liggins."  As  for  Liggins,  he  looked  wise  and  smiled 
knowingly.  Then  articles  began  to  appear  in  the  period- 
icals purporting  to  have  been  written  by  the  author  of 
"  Adam  Bede."  A  book  came  out  called  "  Adam  Bede,  Jr. ," 
and  to  protect  her  publisher,  the  public  and  herself, 
George  Eliot  had  to  reveal  her  identity. 
Many  men  have  written  good  books  and  never  tasted 
fame;  but  few,  like  Liggins  of  Nuneaton,  have  become 
famous  by  doing  nothing.  It  only  proves  that  some 
things  can  be  done  as  well  as  others.  This  breed  of  men 
has  long  dwelt  in  Warwickshire;  Shakespeare  had  them 
in  mind  when  he  wrote,  "  There  be  men  who  do  a  wilful 
stillness  entertain  with  purpose  to  be  dressed  in  an 
opinion  of  wisdom,  gravity  and  profound  conceit."  5& 
Lord  Acton  in  an  able  article  in  the  "  Nineteenth 
Century"  makes  this  statement: 

"  George  Eliot  paid  high  for  happiness  with  Lewes.  She 
forfeited  freedom  of  speech,  the  first  place  among 
English  women,  and  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey." 
9  The  original  dedication  in  "Adam  Bede  "  reads  thus: 
'  To  my  dear  husband,  George  Henry  Lewes,  I  give  the 
manuscript  of  a  work  which  would  never  have  been 
written  but  for  the  happiness  which  his  love  has  con- 
ferred on  my  life." 

Lord  Acton  of  course  assumes  that  this  book  would 
have  been  written,  dedication  and  all,  just  the  same  had 
60 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


Miss  Evans  never  met  Mr.  Lewes.  <&  Once  there  was  a 
child  called  Romola.  She  said  to  her  father  one  day,  as 
she  sat  on  his  knee:  "  Papa,  who  would  take  care  of 
me — give  me  my  bath  and  put  me  to  bed  nights — if  you 
had  never  happened  to  meet  Mamma?  " 

The  days  I  spent  in  Warwickshire  were  very  pleasant  3& 
The  serene  beauty  of  the  country  and  the  kindly 
courtesy  of  the  people  impressed  me  greatly.  Having 
beheld  the  scenes  of  George  Eliot's  childhood,  I  desired 
to  view  the  place  where  her  last  days  were  spent.  It  was 
a  fine  May  day  when  I  took  the  little  steamer  from 
London  Bridge  for  Chelsea. 

A  bird-call  from  the  dingy  brick  building  where  Turner 
died,  and  two  blocks  from  the  old  home  of  Carlyle,  is 
Cheyne  Walk — a  broad  avenue  facing  the  river.  The 
houses  are  old,  but  they  have  a  look  of  gracious  gentility 
that  speaks  of  ease  and  plenty.  High  iron  fences  are  in 
front,  but  they  do  not  shut  off  from  view  the  climbing 
clematis  and  clusters  of  roses  that  gather  over  the 
windows  and  doors. 

I  stood  at  the  gate  of  Number  4  Cheyne  Walk  and 
admired  the  pretty  flowers,  planted  in  such  artistic 
carelessness  as  to  beds  and  rows;  then  I  rang  the  bell — 
an  old  pull-out  affair  with  polished  knob. 
Presently  a  butler  opened  the  door — a  pompous,  tall 
and  awful  butler  in  serious  black  and  with  side-whiskers. 
He  approached;  came  down  the  walk  swinging  a  bunch 

61 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


of  keys,  looking  me  over  as  he  came,  to  see  what  sort 
of  wares  I  had  to  sell. 

"Did  George  Eliot  live  here?"  I  asked  through  the  bars. 
*I "  Mrs.  Cross  lived  'ere  and  died  'ere,  sir,"  came  the 
solemn  and  rebuking  answer. 

"  I  mean  Mrs.  Cross,"  I  added  meekly;  "  I  only  wished 
to  see  the  little  garden  where  she  worked." 
Jeemes  was  softened.  As  he  unlocked  the  gate  he  said : 
'  We  'ave  many  wisiters,  sir;  a  great  bother,  sir;  still,  I 
always  knows  a  gentleman  when  I  sees  one.  P'r'aps  you 
would  like  to  see  the  'ouse,  too,  sir.  The  missus  does 
not  like  it  much,  but  I  will  take  'er  your  card,  sir."  33 
I  gave  him  the  card  and  slipped  a  shilling  into  his  hand 
as  he  gave  me  a  seat  in  the  hallway. 
He  disappeared  upstairs  and  soon  returned  with  the 
pleasing  information  that  I  was  to  be  shown  the  whole 
house  and  garden.  So  I  pardoned  him  the  myth  about 
the  missus,  happening  to  know  that  at  that  particular 
moment  she  was  at  Brighton,  sixty  miles  away. 
A  goodly,  comfortable  house,  four  stories,  well  kept,  and 
much  fine  old  carved  oak  in  the  dining-room  and  hall- 
ways; fantastic  ancient  balusters,  and  a  peculiar  bay 
window  in  the  second-story  rear  that  looked  out  over 
the  little  garden.  Off  to  the  north  could  be  seen  the 
green  of  Kensington  Gardens  and  wavy  suggestions  of 
Hyde  Park.  This  was  George  Eliot's  workshop.  There 
was  a  table  in  the  center  of  the  room  and  three  low 
bookcases  with  pretty  ornaments  above.  In  the  bay 
62 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


window  was  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  room — 
a  fine  marble  bust  of  Goethe.  This,  I  was  assured,  had 
been  the  property  of  Mrs.  Cross,  as  well  as  all  the  books 
and  furniture  in  the  room.  In  one  corner  was  a  revolving 
case  containing  a  set  of  the  "  Century  Dictionary  "  which 
Jeemes  assured  me  had  been  purchased  by  Mr.  Cross 
as  a  present  for  his  wife  a  short  time  before  she  died. 
This  caused  my  faith  to  waver  a  trifle  and  put  to  flight 
a  fine  bit  of  literary  frenzy  that  might  have  found  form 
soon  in  a  sonnet. 

In  the  front  parlor,  I  saw  a  portrait  of  the  former 
occupant  that  showed  "  the  face  that  looked  like  a 
horse."  But  that  is  better  than  to  have  the  face  of  any 
other  animal  of  which  I  know.  Surely  one  would  not 
want  to  look  like  a  dog!  Shakespeare  hated  dogs,  but 
spoke  forty-eight  times  in  his  plays  in  terms  of  respect 
and  affection  for  a  horse.  Who  would  not  resent  the 
imputation  that  one's  face  was  like  that  of  a  sheep  or  a 
goat  or  an  ox,  and  much  gore  has  been  shed  because 
men  have  referred  to  other  men  as  asses — but  a  horse! 
God  bless  you,  yes! 

No  one  has  ever  accused  George  Eliot  of  being  hand- 
some, but  this  portrait  tells  of  a  woman  of  fifty:  calm, 
gentle,  and  the  strong  features  speak  of  a  soul  in  which 
to  confide  3$  33 

At  Highgate,  by  the  side  of  the  grave  of  Lewes,  rests 
the  dust  of  this  great  and  loving  woman.  As  the  pilgrim 
enters  that  famous  old  cemetery,  the  first  imposing 

63 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


monument  seen  is  a  pyramid  of  rare,  costly  porphyry. 
As  you  draw  near,  you  read  this  inscription : 

To  the  memory  of 

ANN  JEWSON  CRISP 

Who  departed  this  life 

Deeply  lamented,  Jan.  20,  1889. 

Also, 
Her  dog,  Emperor. 

Beneath  these  tender  lines  is  a  bas-relief  of  as  vicious- 
looking  a  cur  as  ever  evaded  the  dog-tax. 
Continuing  up  the  avenue,  past  this  monument  just 
noted,  the  kind  old  gardener  will  show  you  another  that 
stands  amid  others  much  more  pretentious — a  small 
gray-granite  column,  and  on  it,  carved  in  small  letters, 
you  read: 

"  Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence." 

Here  rests  the  body  of 

"  GEORGE  ELIOT  " 
(MARY  ANN  CROSS) 
Born  22  November,  1819. 
Died  22  December,  1880. 


64 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


One  comfort  is  that  great  men  taken  up  in  any  way  are 
profitable  company.  We  can  not  look,  however  imper- 
fectly, upon  a  great  man  without  gaining  something  by 
it.  He  is  the  living  fountain  of  life,  which  it  is  pleasant 
to  be  near.  On  any  terms  whatsoever  you  will  not 
grudge  to  wander  in  his  neighborhood  for  a  while. 

— Heroes  and  Hero-Worship 


THOMAS   CARLYLE 


. 


. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


HILE  on  my  way  to  Dumfries  I 
stopped  overnight  at  Gretna  Green, 
which,  as  all  fair  maidens  know,  is  in 
Scotland  just  over  the  border  from 
England  33  33 

To  my  delight  I  found  that  the 
coming  of  runaway  couples  to  Gretna 
Green  was  not  entirely  a  matter  of 
the  past,  for  the  very  evening  I  arrived  a  blushing  pair 
came  to  the  inn  and  inquired  for  a  "  meenister."  The 
ladye  faire  was  a  little  stout  and  the  worthy  swain 
several  years  older  than  my  fancy  might  have  wished, 
but  still  I  did  not  complain. 

The  landlord's  boy  was  dispatched  to  the  rectory 
around  the  corner  and  soon  returned  with  the  reverend 
gentleman  33  33 

I  was  an  uninvited  guest  in  the  little  parlor,  but  no  one 
observed  that  my  wedding-garment  was  only  a  cycling 
costume,  and  I  was  not  challenged. 
After  the  ceremony,  the  several  other  witnesses  filed 
past  the  happy  couple,  congratulating  them  and  kissing 
the  bride  33  33 

I  did  likewise,  and  was  greeted  with  a  resounding  smack 
which  surprised  me  a  bit,  but  I  managed  to  ask,  "  Did 
you  run  away?  " 

"  Noo,"  said  the  groom ; "  noo,  her  was  a  widdie — we  just 

67 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


coom  over  f  ram  Ecclefechan  " ;  then,  lowering  his  voice 
to  a  confidential  whisper,  "  We  're  goin*  baack  on  the 
morrow.  It 's  cheaper  thaan  to  ha*  a  big,  spread 
weddin'." 

This  answer  banished  all  tender  sentiment  from  me  and 
made  useless  my  plans  for  a  dainty  love-story,  but  I 
seized  upon  the  name  of  the  place  whence  they  came. 
fl  "  Ecclefechan !  Ecclefechan !  Why  that 's  where  Carlyle 
was  born! " 

'"Aye,  sir,  and  he  's  buried  there;  a  great  mon  he  was 
— but  an  infideel." 

Ten  miles  beyond  Gretna  Green  is  Ecclefechan — a  little 
village  of  stucco  houses  all  stretched  out  01  one  street. 
Plain,  homely,  rocky  and  unromantic  is  the  country 
round  about,  and  plain,  homely  and  unromantic  is  the 
little  house  where  Carlyle  was  born.  The  place  is  shown 
the  visitor  by  a  good  old  dame  who  takes  one  from 
room  to  room,  giving  a  little  lecture  meanwhile  in  a 
mixture  of  Gaelic  and  English  which  was  quite  beyond 
my  ken.  Several  relics  of  interest  are  shown,  and 
although  the  house  is  almost  precisely  like  all  others  in 
the  vicinity,  imagination  throws  round  it  all  a  roseate 
wreath  of  fancies. 

It  has  been  left  on  record  that  up  to  the  year  when 
Carlyle  was  married,  his  "  most  pleasurable  times  were 
those  when  he  enjoyed  a  quiet  pipe  with  his  mother."  53 
To  few  men  indeed  is  this  felicity  vouchsafed.  But  for 
those  who  have  eaten  oatmeal  porridge  in  the  wayside 
68 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


cottages  of  bonny  Scotland,  or  who  love  to  linger  over 
'  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  there  is  a  touch  of 
tender  pathos  in  the  picture.  The  stone  floor,  the  bare» 
whitewashed  walls,  the  peat  smoldering  on  the  hearth, 
sending  out  long,  fitful  streaks  that  dance  among  the 
rafters  overhead,  and  the  mother  and  son  sitting  there 
watching  the  coal — silent.  The  woman  takes  a  small 
twig  from  a  bundle  of  sticks,  reaches  over,  lights  it, 
applies  it  to  her  pipe,  takes  a  few  whiffs  and  passes  the 
light  to  her  son.  Then  they  talk  in  low,  earnest  tones  of 
man's  duty  to  man  and  man's  duty  to  God. 
And  it  was  this  mother  who  first  applied  the  spark  that 
fired  Carlyle's  ambition ;  it  was  from  her  that  he  got  the 
germ  of  those  talents  which  have  made  his  name  illus- 
trious 53  53 

Yet  this  woman  could  barely  read  and  did  not  learn  to 
write  until  her  firstborn  had  gone  away  from  the  home 
nest.  Then  it  was  that  she  sharpened  a  gray  goose-quill 
and  labored  long  and  patiently,  practising  with  this 
instrument  (said  to  be  mightier  than  the  sword)  and 
with  ink  she  herself  had  mixed — all  that  she  might  write 
a  letter  to  her  boy ;  and  how  sweetly,  tenderly  homely, 
and  loving  are  these  letters  as  we  read  them  today!  5S 
James  Carlyle  with  his  own  hands  built,  in  Seventeen 
Hundred  Ninety,  this  house  at  Ecclefechan.  The  same 
year  he  married  an  excellent  woman,  a  second  cousin, 
by  name  Janet  Carlyle.  She  lived  but  a  year.  The  poor 
husband  was  heartbroken,  and  declared,  as  many  men 

69 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


under  like  conditions  had  done  before  and  have  done 
since,  that  his  sorrow  was  inconsolable.  And  he  vowed 
that  he  would  walk  through  life  and  down  to  his  death 
alone  53  53 

But  it  is  a  matter  for  congratulation  that  he  broke  his 
vow  53  53 

In  two  years  he  married  Margaret  Aitken — a  serving- 
woman.  She  bore  nine  children.  Thomas  was  the  eldest 
and  the  only  one  who  proved  recreant  to  the  religious 
faith  of  his  fathers. 

One  of  the  brothers  moved  to  Shiawassee  County, 
Michigan,  where  I  had  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  him, 
some  years  ago.  A  hard-headed  man,  he  was:  sensible, 
earnest,  honest,  with  a  stubby  beard  and  a  rich  brogue. 
He  held  the  office  of  school  trustee,  also  that  of  pound- 
master,  and  I  was  told  that  he  served  his  township 
loyally  and  well. 

This  worthy  man  looked  with  small  favor  on  the 
literary  pretensions  of  his  brother  Tammas,  and  twice 
wrote  him  long  letters  expostulating  with  him  on  his 
religious  vagaries.  '*  I  knew  no  good  could  come  of  it," 
sorrowfully  said  he,  and  so  I  left  him. 
But  I  inquired  of  several  of  the  neighbors  what  they 
thought  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  and  I  found  that  they  did 
not  think  of  him  at  all.  And  I  mounted  my  beast  and 
rode  away. 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  educated  for  the  Kirk,  and  it  was  a 
cause  of  much  sorrow  to  his  parents  that  he  could  not 
70 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


accept  its  beliefs.  He  has  been  spoken  of  as  England's 
chief  philosopher,  yet  he  subscribed  to  no  creed,  nor 
did  he  formulate  one.  However,  in  "  Latter-Day  Pam- 
phlets "  he  partially  prepares  a  catechism  for  a  part  of 
the  brute  creation.  He  supposes  that  all  swine  of  supe- 
rior logical  powers  have  a  "belief,"  and  as  they  are 
unable  to  express  it  he  essays  the  task  for  them. 
The  following  are  a  few  of  the  postulates  in  this  creed 
of  The  Brotherhood  of  Latter-Day  Swine: 
"  Question.  Who  made  the  Pig? 
"  Answer.  The  Pork-Butcher. 
"  Question.  What  is  the  Whole  Duty  of  Pigs? 
"  Answer.  It  is  the  mission  of  Universal  Pighood;  and 
the  duty  of  all  Pigs,  at  all  times,  is  to  diminish  the 
quantity  of  attainable  swill  and  increase  the  unattain- 
able. This  is  the  Whole  Duty  of  Pigs. 
"  Question.  What  is  Pig  Poetry? 

"  Answer.  It  is  the  universal  recognition  of  Pig's  wash 
and  ground  barley,  and  the  felicity  of  Pigs  whose 
trough  has  been  set  in  order  and  who  have  enough. 
"  Question.  What  is  justice  in  Pigdom? 
"  Answer.  It  is  the  sentiment  in  Pig  nature  sometimes 
called   revenge,   indignation,   etc.,   which  if  one   Pig 
provoke,  another  comes  out  in  more  or  less  destructive 
manner;  hence  laws  are  necessary — amazing  quantities 
of  laws — denning  what  Pigs  shall  not  do. 
"  Question.  What  do  you  mean  by  equity? 
"  Answer.    Equity    consists    in    getting    your    share 

71 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


from  the  Universal  Swine-Trough,  and  part  of  another's. 
"  Question.  What  is  meant  by  '  your  share  '  ? 
"  Answer.  My  share  is  getting  whatever  I  can  contrive 
to  seize  without  being  made  up  into  Side-Meat." 
I  have  slightly  abridged  this  little  extract  and  inserted 
it  here  to  show  the  sympathy  which  Mr.  Carlyle  had 
for  the  dumb  brute. 

One  of  America's  great  men,  in  a  speech  delivered  not 
long  ago,  said,  "  From  Scotch  manners,  Scotch  religion 
and  Scotch  whisky,  good  Lord  deliver  us!  " 
My  experience  with  these  three  articles  has  been  some- 
what limited;  but  Scotch  manners  remind  me  of  chest- 
nut-burs— not  handsome  without,  but  good  within.  For 
when  you  have  gotten  beyond  the  rough  exterior  of 
Sandy  you  generally  find  a  heart  warm,  tender  and 
generous  33  53 

Scotch  religion  is  only  another  chestnut-bur,  but  then 
you  need  not  eat  the  shuck  if  you  fear  it  will  not  agree 
with  your  inward  state.  Nevertheless,  if  the  example  of 
royalty  is  of  value,  the  fact  can  be  stated  that  Victoria, 
Queen  of  Great  Britain  and  Empress  of  India,  is  a 
Presbyterian.  That  is,  she  is  a  Presbyterian  about  one- 
half  the  time — when  she  is  in  Scotland,  for  she  is  the 
head  of  the  Scottish  Kirk.  When  in  England,  of  course 
she  is  an  Episcopalian.  We  have  often  been  told  that 
religion  is  largely  a  matter  of  geography,  and  here  is  a 
bit  of  something  that  looks  like  proof. 
Of  Scotch  whisky  I  am  not  competent  to  speak,  so  that 
72 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


subject  must  be  left  to  the  experts.  But  a  Kentucky 
colonel  at  my  elbow  declares  that  it  can  not  be  compared 
with  the  Blue-Grass  article ;  though  I  trust  that  no  one 
will  be  prejudiced  against  it  on  that  account. 
Scotch  intellect,  however,  is  worthy  of  our  serious  con- 
sideration. It  is  a  bold,  rocky  headland,  standing  out 
into  the  tossing  sea  of  the  Unknown.  Assertive  2  Yes. 
Stubborn  ?  Most  surely.  Proud  ?  By  all  means.  Twice  as 
many  pilgrims  visit  the  grave  of  Burns  as  that  of  Shake- 
speare. Buckle  declares  Adam  Smith's  "  Wealth  of 
Nations"  has  had  a  greater  influence  on  civilization 
than  any  other  book  ever  writ — save  none ;  and  the  aver- 
age Scotchman  knows  his  Carlyle  a  deal  better  than  the 
average  American  knows  his  Emerson:  in  fact,  four 
times  as  many  of  Carlyle's  books  have  been  printed  S& 
When  Carlyle  took  time  to  bring  the  ponderous 
machinery  of  his  intellect  to  bear  on  a  theme,  he  saw 
it  through  and  through.  The  vividness  of  his  imagina- 
tion gives  us  a  true  insight  into  times  long  since  gone 
by ;  it  shows  virtue  her  own  feature,  vice  her  own  image, 
and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his  form  and 
pressure.  In  history  he  goes  beyond  the  political  and 
conventional — showing  us  the  thought,  the  hope,  the 
fear,  the  passion  of  the  soul. 

His  was  the  masculine  mind.  The  divination  and  subtle 
intuitions  which  are  to  be  found  scattered  through  his 
pages,  like  violets  growing  among  the  rank  swale  of  the 
prairies — all  these  sweet,  odorous  things  came  from  his 

73 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


wife.  She  gave  him  of  her  best  thought,  and  he  greedily 
absorbed  it  and  unconsciously  wrote  it  down  as  his  own. 
*J  There  are  those  who  blame  and  berate;  volumes  have 
been  written  to  show  the  inconsiderateness  of  this  man 
toward  the  gentle  lady  who  was  his  intellectual  com- 
rade. But  they  know  not  life  who  do  this  thing. 
It  is  a  fact  that  Carlyle  never  rushed  to  pick  up  Jeannie's 
handkerchief.  I  admit  that  he  could  not  bow  gracefully; 
that  he  could  not  sing  tenor,  nor  waltz,  nor  tell  funny 
stories,  nor  play  the  mandolin;  and  if  I  had  been  his 
neighbor  I  would  not  have  attempted  to  teach  him  any 
of  these  accomplishments. 

Once  he  took  his  wife  to  the  theater;  and  after  the  per- 
formance he  accidentally  became  separated  from  her 
in  the  crowd  and  trudged  off  home  alone  and  went  to 
bed  forgetting  all  about  her — but  even  for  this  I  do  not 
indict  him.  Mrs.  Carlyle  never  upbraided  him  for  this 
forgetfulness,  neither  did  she  relate  the  incident  to  any 
one,  and  for  these  things  I  to  her  now  reverently  lift 
my  hat  S3»  $3» 

Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle  had  capacity  for  pain,  as  it  seems 
all  great  souls  have.  She  suffered — but  then  suffering  is 
not  all  suffering  and  pain  is  not  all  pain. 
Life  is  often  dark,  but  then  there  are  rifts  in  the  clouds 
when  we  behold  the  glorious  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  Not  a 
day  passes  but  that  the  birds  sing  in  the  branches,  and 
the  tree-tops  poise  backward  and  forward  in  restful, 
rhythmic  harmony,  and  never  an  hour  goes  by  but  that 
74 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


hope  bears  us  up  on  her  wings  as  the  eagle  does  her 
young.  And  ever  just  before  the  year  dies  and  the  frost 
comes,  the  leaves  take  on  a  gorgeous  hue  and  the  color 
of  the  flowers  then  puts  to  shame  for  brilliancy  all  the 
plainer  petals  of  Springtime. 

And  I  know  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  were  happy,  so 
happy,  at  times,  that  they  laughed  and  cried  for  joy. 
Jeannie  gave  all,  and  she  saw  her  best  thought  used — 
carried  further,  written  out  and  given  to  the  world  as 
that  of  another — but  she  uttered  no  protest. 
Xantippe  lives  in  history  only  because  she  sought  to 
worry  a  great  philosopher;  we  remember  the  daughter 
of  Herodias  because  she  demanded  the  head  (not  the 
heart)  of  a  good  man ;  Goneril  and  Regan  because  they 
trod  upon  the  withered  soul  of  their  sire ;  Lady  Macbeth 
because  she  lured  her  liege  to  murder;  Charlotte  Corday 
for  her  dagger- thrust ;  Lucrezia  Borgia  for  her  poison; 
Sapphira  for  her  untruth ;  Jael  because  she  pierced  the 
brain  of  Sisera  with  a  rusty  nail  (instead  of  an  idea); 
Delilah  for  the  reason  that  she  deprived  Samson  of  his 
source  of  strength;  and  in  the  "Westminster  Review" 
for  May,  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-four,  Ouida  makes 
the  flat  statement  that  for  every  man  of  genius  who  has 
been  helped  by  a  woman,  ten  have  been  dragged  down. 
<I  But  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle  lives  in  the  hearts  of  all 
who  reverence  the  sweet,  the  gentle,  the  patient,  the 
earnest,  the  loving  spirit  of  the  womanly  woman:  lives 
because  she  ministered  to  the  needs  of  a  great  man  3$ 

75 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


She  was  ever  a  frail  body.  Several  long  illnesses  kept 
her  to  her  bed  for  weeks,  but  she  recovered  from  these, 
even  in  spite  of  the  doctors,  who  thoroughly  impressed 
both  herself  and  her  husband  with  the  thought  of  her 
frailty  S&  S& 

On  April  the  Twenty-first,  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty- 
six,  she  called  her  carriage,  as  was  her  custom,  and 
directed  the  driver  to  go  through  the  park.  She  carried 
a  book  in  her  hands,  and  smiled  a  greeting  to  a  friend 
as  the  brougham  moved  away  from  the  little  street 
where  they  lived.  The  driver  drove  slowly — drove  for 
an  hour — two.  He  got  down  from  his  box  to  receive 
the  orders  of  his  mistress,  touched  his  hat  as  he  opened 
the  carriage-door,  but  no  kindly  eyes  looked  into  his. 
She  sat  back  in  the  corner  as  if  resting;  the  shapely 
head  a  little  thrown  forward,  the  book  held  gently  in 
the  delicate  hands,  but  the  fingers  were  cold  and  stiff — 
Jeannie  Welsh  was  dead — and  Thomas  Carlyle  was 
alone  53  5$ 


76 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


LONG  the  Thames,  at  Chelsea,  opposite  the 
rows  of  quiet  and  well-kept  houses  of  Cheyne 
Walk,  is  the  "  Embankment."  A  parkway  it 
is  of  narrow  green,  with  graveled  walks, 
bushes  and  trees,  that  here  and  there  grow  lush  and 
lusty  as  if  to  hide  the  unsightly  river  from  the  good 
people  who  live  across  the  street. 

Following  this  pleasant  bit  of  breathing  space,  with  its 
walks  that  wind  in  and  out  among  the  bushes,  one  comes 
unexpectedly  upon  a  bronze  statue.  You  need  not  read 
the  inscription :  a  glance  at  that  shaggy  head,  the  grave, 
sober,  earnest  look,  and  you  exclaim  under  your  breath, 
"Carlyle!"  &  53 

In  this  statue  the  artist  has  caught  with  rare  skill  the 
look  of  reverie  and  repose.  One  can  imagine  that  on  a 
certain  night,  as  the  mists  and  shadows  of  evening  were 
gathering  along  the  dark  river,  the  gaunt  form,  wrapped 
in  its  accustomed  cloak,  came  stalking  down  the  little 
street  to  the  park,  just  as  he  did  thousands  of  times, 
and  taking  his  seat  in  the  big  chair  fell  asleep.  In  the 
morning  the  children  that  came  to  play  along  the  river 
found  the  form  in  cold,  enduring  bronze. 
At  the  play  we  have  seen  the  marble  transformed  by 
love  into  beauteous  life.  How  much  easier  the  reverse — 
here  where  souls  stay  only  a  day ! 

Cheyne  Row  is  a  little,  alley-like  street,  running  only  a 
block,  with  fifteen  houses  on  one  side,  and  twelve  on  the 
other  53  53 

77 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


These  houses  are  all  brick  and  built  right  up  to  the  side- 
walk. On  the  north  side  they  are  all  in  one  block,  and 
one  at  first  sees  no  touch  of  individuality  in  any  of  them. 
^1  They  are  old,  and  solid,  and  plain — built  for  revenue 
only.  On  closer  view  I  thought  one  or  two  had  been 
painted,  and  on  one  there  was  a  cornice  that  set  it  off 
from  the  rest.  As  I  stood  on  the  opposite  side  and  looked 
at  this  row  of  houses,  I  observed  that  Number  Five  was 
the  dingiest  and  plainest  of  them  all.  For  there  were 
dark  shutters  instead  of  blinds,  and  these  shutters  were 
closed,  all  save  one  rebel  that  swung  and  creaked  in  the 
breeze.  Over  the  doorway,  sparrows  had  made  their 
nests  and  were  fighting  and  scolding.  Swallows  hovered 
above  the  chimney;  dust,  cobwebs,  neglect  were  all 
about  53  53 

And  as  I  looked  there  came  to  me  the  words  of  Ursa 
Thomas: 

"  Brief,  brawling  day,  with  its  noisy  phantoms,  its 
paper  crowns,  tinsel-gilt,  is  gone;  and  divine,  everlasting 
night,  with  her  star  diadems,  with  her  silences  and  her 
verities,  is  come." 

Here  walked  Thomas  and  Jeannie  one  fair  May  morning 
in  Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-four.  Thomas  was  thirty- 
nine,  tall  and  swarthy,  strong ;  with  set  mouth  and  three 
wrinkles  on  his  forehead  that  told  of  care  and  dyspepsia. 
Jeannie  was  younger;  her  face  winsome,  just  a  trifle 
anxious,  with  luminous,  gentle  eyes,  suggestive  of 
patience,  truth  and  loyalty.  They  looked  like  country 
78 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


folks,  did  these  two.  They  examined  the  surroundings, 
consulted  together — sixty  pounds  rent  a  year  seemed 
very  high!  But  they  took  the  house,  and  T.  Carlyle, 
son  of  James  Carlyle,  stone-mason,  paid  rent  for  it 
every  month  for  half  a  century,  lacking  three  years. 
^  I  walked  across  the  street  and  read  the  inscription  on 
the  marble  tablet  inserted  in  the  front  of  the  house 
above  the  lower  windows.  It  informs  the  stranger  that 
Thomas  Carlyle  lived  here  from  Eighteen  Hundred 
Thirty-four  to  Eighteen  Hundred  Eighty-one,  and  that 
the  tablet  was  erected  by  the  Carlyle  Society  of  London. 
^f  I  ascended  the  stone  steps  and  scraped  my  boots  on 
the  well-worn  scraper,  made  long,  long  ago  by  a  black 
smith  who  is  now  dust,  and  who  must  have  been  a  very 
awkward  mechanic,  for  I  saw  where  he  had  made  a 
misstroke  with  his  hammer,  probably  as  he  discussed 
theology  with  a  caller.  Then  I  rang  the  bell  and  plied 
the  knocker  and  waited  there  on  the  steps  for  Jeannie 
Welsh  to  come  bid  me  welcome,  just  as  she  did  Emer- 
son when  he,  too,  used  the  scraper  and  plied  the 
knocker  and  stood  where  I  did  then. 
And  my  knock  was  answered — answered  by  a  very  sour 
and  peevish  woman  next  door,  who  thrust  her  head  out 
of  the  window,  and  exclaimed  in  a  shrill  voice: 
"  Look  'ere,  sir,  you  might  as  well  go  rap  on  the  curb- 
stone, don't  you  know;  there  's  nobody  livin'  there,  sir, 
don't  you  know! " 
*  Yes,  madam,  that  is  why  I  knocked!  " 

79 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


"  Beggin*  your  pardon,  sir,  if  you  use  your  heyes  you  '11 
see  there  's  nobody  livin'  there,  don't  you  know!"  5$ 
"  I  knocked  lest  offense  be  given.  How  can  I  get  in?  " 
d  "  You  might  go  in  through  the  keyhole,  sir,  or  down 
the  chimney.  You  seem  to  be  a  little  daft,  sir,  don't  you 
know!  But  if  you  must  get  in,  perhaps  it  would  be  as 
well  to  go  over  to  Mrs.  Brown's  and  brang  the  key," 
and  she  slammed  down  the  window. 
Across  the  street  Mrs.  Brown's  sign  smiled  at  me. 
Mrs.  Brown  keeps  a  little  grocery  and  bakeshop  and  was 
very  willing  to  show  me  the  house.  She  fumbled  in  a 
black  bag  for  the  keys,  all  the  time  telling  me  of  three 
Americans  who  came  last  week  to  see  Carlyle's  house, 
and  "  as  how  "  they  each  gave  her  a  shilling.  I  took  the 
hint  53  53 

"  Only  Americans  care  now  for  Mr.  Carlyle,"  plaintively 
added  the  old  lady  as  she  fished  out  the  keys;  "  soon 
we  will  all  be  forgot." 

We  walked  across  the  street  and  after  several  ineffectual 
attempts  the  rusty  lock  was  made  to  turn.  I  entered. 
Cold,  bare  and  bleak  was  the  sight  of  those  empty 
rooms.  The  old  lady  had  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  so  she 
waited  for  me  on  the  doorstep  as  I  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  third  floor.  The  noise-proof  back  room  where  "The 
French  Revolution  "  was  writ,  twice  over,  was  so  dark 
that  I  had  to  grope  my  way  across  to  the  window.  The 
sash  stuck  and  seemed  to  have  a  will  of  its  own,  like 
him  who  so  often  had  raised  it.  But  at  last  it  gave  way 
80 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


and  I  flung  wide  the  shutter  and  looked  down  at  the 
little  arbor  where  Teufelsdrockh  sat  so  often  and  wooed 
wisdom  with  the  weed  brought  from  Virginia. 
Then  I  stood  before  the  fireplace,  where  he  of  the 
Eternities  had  so  often  sat  and  watched  the  flickering 
embers.  Here  he  lived  in  his  loneliness  and  cursed  curses 
that  were  prayers,  and  here  for  near  five  decades  he  read 
and  thought  and  dreamed  and  wrote.  Here  the  spirits 
of  Cromwell  and  Frederick  hovered;  here  that  pitiful 
and  pitiable  long  line  of  ghostly  partakers  in  the  Revo- 
lution answered  to  his  roll-call. 

The  wind  whistled  down  the  chimney  gruesomely  as  my 
footfalls  echoed  through  the  silent  chambers,  and  I 
thought  I  heard  a  sepulchral  voice  say : 
'Thy  future  life!  Thy  fate  is  it,  indeed!  Whilst  thou 
makest  that  thy  chief  question,  thy  life  to  me  and*  to 
thyself  and  to  thy  God  is  worthless.  What  is  incredible 
to  thee  thou  shalt  not,  at  thy  soul's  peril,  pretend  to 
believe.  Elsewhither  for  a  refuge !  Away !  Go  to  perdition 
if  thou  wilt,  but  not  with  a  lie  in  thy  mouth — by  the 
Eternal  Maker,  No!! " 

I  was  startled  at  first,  but  stood  still  listening;  then  I 
thought  I  saw  a  faint  blue  cloud  of  mist  curling  up  in 
the  fireplace.  Watching  this  smoke  and  sitting  before  it 
in  gloomy  abstraction  was  the  form  of  an  old  man.  I 
swept  my  hand  through  the  apparition,  but  still  it 
stayed.  My  lips  moved  in  spite  of  myself  and  I  said: 
"  Hail !  hard-headed  man  of  granite  outcrop  and  heather, 

81 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


of  fen  and  crag,  of  moor  and  mountain,  and  of  bleak 
East  wind,  hail!  Eighty-six  years  didst  thou  live.  One 
hundred  years  lacking  fourteen  didst  thou  suffer,  enjoy, 
weep,  dream,  groan,  pray  and  strike  thy  rugged  breast! 
And  yet  methinks  that  in  those  years  there  was  much 
quiet  peace  and  sweet  content;  for  constant  pain  be- 
numbs, and  worry  destroys,  and  vain  unrest  summons 
the  grim  messenger  of  death.  But  thou  didst  live  and 
work  and  love;  howbeit,  thy  touch  was  not  always 
gentle,  nor  thy  voice  low ;  but  on  thy  lips  was  no  lie,  in 
thy  thought  no  concealment,  in  thy  heart  no  pollution. 
But  mark !  thou  didst  come  out  of  poverty  and 
obscurity :  on  thy  battered  shield  there  was  no  crest  and 
thou  didst  leave  all  to  follow  truth.  And  verily  she  did 
lead  thee  a  merry  chase! 

'  Thou  hadst  no  Past,  but  thou  hast  a  Future.  Thou 
didst  say: '  Bury  me  in  Westminster,  never!  where  the 
mob  surges,  cursed  with  idle  curiosity  to  see  the  graves 
of  kings  and  nobodies?  No!  Take  me  back  to  rugged 
Scotland  and  lay  my  tired  form  to  rest  by  the  side  of  an 
honest  man — my  father.' 

'  Thou  didst  refuse  the  Knighthood  offered  thee  by 
royalty,  saying,  '  I  am  not  the  founder  of  the  house  of 
Carlyle  and  I  have  no  sons  to  be  pauperized  by  a  title/ 
True,  thou  didst  leave  no  sons  after  the  flesh  to 
mourn  thy  loss,  nor  fair  daughters  to  bedeck  thy  grave 
with  garlands,  but  thou  didst  reproduce  thyself  in 
thought,  and  on  the  minds  of  men  thou  didst  leave  thy 
82 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


impress.  And  thy  ten  thousand  sons  will  keep  thy 
memory  green  so  long  as  men  shall  work,  and  toil,  and 
strive,  and  hope." 

The  wind  still  howled.  I  looked  out  and  saw  watery 
clouds  scudding  athwart  the  face  of  the  murky  sky. 
The  shutters  banged,  and  shut  me  in  the  dark.  I  made 
haste  to  find  the  door,  reached  the  stairway — slid  down 
the  banisters  to  where  Mrs.  Brown  was  waiting  for  me 
at  the  threshold. 

We  locked  the  door.  She  went  across  to  her  little  bake- 
shop  and  I  stopped  a  passing  policeman  to  ask  the  way 
to  Westminster.  He  told  me. 
"  Did  you  visit  Carlyle's  'ouse?  "  he  asked. 
"  Yes."  &  S& 
"  With  old  Mrs.  Brown?  " 

*  Yes,  she  waited  for  me  in  the  doorway — she  had  the 
rheumatism  so  she  could  not  climb  the  stairs." 
"Rheumatism?  Huh! — you  couldn't  'ire   'er   to  go 
inside.  Why,  don't  you  know?  They  say  the  'ouse  is 
'aunted! "  33  3$ 


83 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


Put  roses  in  their  hair,  put  precious  stones  on  their 
breasts;  see  that  they  are  clothed  in  purple  and  scarlet, 
with  other  delights;  that  they  also  learn  to  read  the 
gilded  heraldry  of  the  sky;  and  upon  the  earth  be  taught 
not  only  the  labors  of  it  but  the  loveliness. 

— Deucalion 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


T  Windermere  a  good  friend  told  me 
that  I  must  abandon  all  hope  of 
seeing  Mr.  Ruskin;  for  I  had  no 
special  business  with  him,  no  letters 
of  introduction,  and  then  the  fact 
that  I  am  an  American  made  it 
final.  Americans  in  England  are 
supposed  to  pick  flowers  in  private 
gardens,  cut  their  names  on  trees,  laugh  boisterously  at 
trifles,  and  often  to  make  invidious  comparisons.  Very 
properly,  Mr.  Ruskin  does  not  admire  these  things  33 
Then  Mr.  Ruskin  is  a  very  busy  man.  Occasionally  he 
issues  a  printed  manifesto  to  his  friends  requesting  them 
to  give  him  peace.  A  copy  of  one  such  circular  was 
shown  to  me.  It  runs,  "  Mr.  J.  Ruskin  is  about  to  begin 
a  work  of  great  importance,  and  therefore  begs  that  in 
reference  to  calls  and  correspondence  you  will  consider 
him  dead  for  the  next  two  months."  A  similar  notice  is 
reproduced  in  "  Arrows  of  the  Chace,"  and  this  one 
thing,  I  think,  illustrates  as  forcibly  as  anything  in 
Mr.  Ruskin's  work  the  self-contained  characteristics 
of  the  man  himself. 

Surely  if  a  man  is  pleased  to  be  considered  "  dead  " 
occasionally,  even  to  his  kinsmen  and  friends,  he  should 
not  be  expected  to  receive  with  open  arms  an  enemy  to 
steal  away  his  time.  This  is  assuming,  of  course,  that  all 

87 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


individuals  who  pick  flowers  in  other  folks'  gardens,  cut 
their  names  on  trees,  and  laugh  boisterously  at  trifles, 
are  enemies.  I  therefore  decided  that  I  would  simply 
walk  over  to  Brantwood,  view  it  from  a  distance,  tramp 
over  its  hills,  row  across  the  lake,  and  at  nightfall  take  a 
swim  in  its  waters.  Then  I  would  rest  at  the  Inn  for  a 
space  and  go  my  way. 

Lake  Coniston  is  ten  miles  from  Grasmere,  and  even 
alone  the  walk  is  not  long.  If,  however,  you  are  delight- 
fully attended  by  "  King's  Daughters  "  with  whom  you 
sit  and  commune  now  and  then  on  the  bankside,  the 
distance  will  seem  to  be  much  less.  Then  there  is  a 
pleasant  little  break  in  the  journey  at  Hawkshead.  Here 
one  may  see  the  quaint  old  schoolhouse  where  Words- 
worth when  a  boy  dangled  his  feet  from  a  bench  and 
proved  his  humanity  by  carving  his  initials  on  the  seat. 
<J  The  Inn  at  the  head  of  Coniston  Water  appeared  very 
inviting  and  restful  when  I  saw  it  that  afternoon.  Built 
in  sections  from  generation  to  generation,  half-covered 
with  ivy  and  embowered  in  climbing  roses,  it  is  an 
institution  entirely  different  from  the  "  Grand  Palace 
Hotel  "  at  Oshkosh.  In  America  we  have  gongs  that  are 
fiercely  beaten  at  stated  times  by  gentlemen  of  color, 
just  as  they  are  supposed  to  do  in  their  native  Congo 
jungles.  This  din  proclaims  to  the  "  guests  "  and  to  the 
public  at  large  that  it  is  time  to  come  in  and  be  fed.  But 
this  refinement  of  civilization  is  not  yet  in  Coniston, 
and  the  Inn  is  quiet  and  homelike.  You  may  go  to  bed 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


when  you  are  tired,  get  up  when  you  choose,  and  eat 
when  you  are  hungry. 

There  were  no  visitors  about  when  I  arrived,  and  I 
thought  I  would  have  the  coffeeroom  all  to  myself  at 
luncheon- time;  but  presently  there  came  in  a  pleasant- 
faced  old  gentleman  in  knickerbockers.  He  bowed  to 
me  and  then  took  a  place  at  the  table.  He  said  that  it 
was  a  fine  day  and  I  agreed  with  him,  adding  that  the 
mountains  were  very  beautiful.  He  assented,  putting  in 
a  codicil  to  the  effect  that  the  lake  was  very  pretty  3$ 
Then  the  waiter  came  for  our  orders. 

'  Together,  I  s'pose?  "  remarked  Thomas,  inquiringly, 
as  he  halted  at  the  door  and  balanced  the  tray  on  his 
finger-tips  5&  S& 

1  Yes,  serve  lunch  for  us  together,"  said  the  ruddy  old 
gentleman  as  he  looked  at  me  and  smiled;  "  to  eat  alone 
is  bad  for  the  digestion." 
I  nodded  assent. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to  Brantwood?  "  I  asked. 
*I  "  Oh,  not  far — just  across  the  lake." 
He  arose  and  flung  the  shutter  open  so  I  could  see  the 
old,    yellow   house   about   a    mile   across    the   water, 
nestling  in  its  wealth  of  green  on  the  hillside.  Soon  the 
waiter  brought  our  lunch,  and  while  we  discussed  the 
chops  and  new  potatoes  we  talked  Ruskiniana. 
The  old  gentleman  knew  a  deal  more  of  "Stones  of  Ven- 
ice" and  "Modern  Painters"  than  I;  but  I  told  him 
how  Thoreau  introduced  Ruskin  to  America  and  how 

89 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


Concord  was  the  first  place  in  the  New  World  to  recog- 
nize this  star  in  the  East.  And  upon  my  saying  this, 
the  old  gentleman  brought  his  knife-handle  down  on 
the  table,  declaring  that  Thoreau  and  Whitman  were  the 
only  two  men  of  genius  that  America  had  produced.  I 
begged  him  to  make  it  three  and  include  Emerson, 
which  he  finally  consented  to  do. 

By  and  by  the  waiter  cleared  the  table  preparatory  to 
bringing  in  the  coffee.  The  old  gentleman  pushed  his 
chair  back,  took  the  napkin  from  under  his  double  chin, 
brushed  the  crumbs  from  his  goodly  front,  and  remarked : 
"  I  'm  going  over  to  Brantwood  this  afternoon  to  call 
on  Mr.  Ruskin — just  to  pay  my  respects  to  him,  as  I 
always  do  when  I  come  here.  Can't  you  go  with  me?  " 
^  I  think  this  was  about  the  most  pleasing  question  I 
ever  had  asked  me.  I  was  going  to  request  him  to  "  come 
again  "  just  for  the  joy  of  hearing  the  words,  but  I 
pulled  my  dignity  together,  straightened  up,  swallowed 
my  coffee  red-hot,  pushed  my  chair  back,  flourished  my 
napkin,  and  said,  "  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  go."  3& 
So  we  went — we  two — he  in  his  knickerbockers  and  I 
in  my  checks  and  outing-shirt.  I  congratulated  myself 
on  looking  no  worse  than  he,  and  as  for  him,  he  never 
seemed  to  think  that  our  costumes  were  not  exactly 
what  they  should  be;  and  after  all  it  matters  little  how 
you  dress  when  you  call  on  one  of  Nature's  noblemen — 
they  demand  no  livery. 

We  walked  around  the  northern  end  of  Coniston  Water, 
90 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


along  the  eastern  edge,  past  Tent  House,  where 
Tennyson  once  lived  (and  found  it  "outrageous  quiet"), 
and  a  mile  farther  on  we  came  to  Brantwood. 
The  road  curves  in  to  the  back  of  the  house — which, 
by  the  way,  is  the  front — and  the  driveway  is  lined  with 
great  trees  that  form  a  complete  archway.  There  is  no 
lodge-keeper,  no  flowerbeds  laid  out  with  square  and 
compass,  no  trees  trimmed  to  appear  like  elephants, 
no  cast-iron  dogs,  nor  terra-cotta  deer,  and,  strangest  of 
all,  no  sign  of  the  lawn-mower.  There  is  nothing,  in  fact, 
to  give  forth  a  sign  that  the  great  Apostle  of  Beauty 
lives  in  this  very  old-fashioned  spot.  Big  boulders  are 
to  be  seen  here  and  there  where  Nature  left  them, 
tangles  of  vines  running  over  old  stumps,  part  of  the 
meadow  cut  close  with  a  scythe,  and  part  growing  up  as 
if  the  owner  knew  the  price  of  hay.  Then  there  are 
flowerbeds,  where  grow  clusters  of  poppies  and  holly- 
hocks (purple,  and  scarlet,  and  white),  prosaic  goose- 
berry-bushes, plain  Yankee  pieplant  (from  which  the 
English  make  tarts),  rue  and  sweet  marjoram,  with 
patches  of  fennel,  sage,  thyme  and  catnip,  all  lined  off 
with  boxwood,  making  me  think  of  my  grandmother's 
garden  at  Roxbury. 

On  the  hillside  above  the  garden  we  saw  the  entrance 
to  the  cave  that  Mr.  Ruskin  once  filled  with  ice,  just  to 
show  the  world  how  to  keep  its  head  cool  at  small 
expense.  He  even  wrote  a  letter  to  the  papers  giving  the 
bright  idea  to  humanity — that  the  way  to  utilize  caves 

91 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


was  to  fill  them  with  ice.  Then  he  forgot  all  about  the 
matter.  But  the  following  June,  when  the  cook,  wishing 
to  make  some  ice-cream  as  a  glad  surprise  for  the 
Sunday  dinner,  opened  the  natural  ice-chest,  she  found 
only  a  pool  of  muddy  water,  and  exclaimed,  "  Bothera- 
tion! "  Then  they  had  custard  instead  of  ice-cream  35 
We  walked  up  the  steps,  and  my  friend  let  the  brass 
knocker  drop  just  once,  for  only  Americans  give  a 
rat-a-tat-tat,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  a  white- 
whiskered  butler,  who  took  our  cards  and  ushered  us 
into  the  library.  My  heart  beat  a  trifle  fast  as  I  took 
inventory  of  the  room;  for  I  never  before  had  called  on 
a  man  who  was  believed  to  have  refused  the  poet- 
laureateship.  A  dimly  lighted  room  was  this  library — 
walls  painted  brown,  running  up  to  mellow  yellow  at 
the  ceiling,  high  bookshelves,  with  a  stepladder,  and 
only  five  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  of  these  three  were 
etchings,  and  two  water-colors  of  a  very  simple  sort; 
leather-covered  chairs;  a  long  table  in  the  center,  on 
which  were  strewn  sundry  magazines  and  papers,  also 
several  photographs ;  and  at  one  end  of  the  room  a  big 
fireplace,  where  a  yew  log  smoldered.  Here  my  inven- 
tory was  cut  short  by  a  cheery  voice  behind : 
"  Ah!  now,  gentlemen,  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 
There  was  no  time  nor  necessity  for  a  formal  introduc- 
tion. The  great  man  took  my  hand  as  if  he  had  always 
known  me,  as  perhaps  he  thought  he  had.  Then  he 
greeted  my  friend  in  the  same  way,  stirred  up  the  fire, 
92 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


for  it  was  a  North  of  England  summer  day,  and  took  a 
seat  by  the  table.  We  were  all  silent  for  a  space — a 
silence  without  embarrassment. 

'  You  are  looking  at  the  etching  over  the  fireplace — it 
was  sent  to  me  by  a  young  lady  in  America,"  said 
Mr.  Ruskin,  "  and  I  placed  it  there  to  get  acquainted 
with  it.  I  like  it  more  and  more.  Do  you  know  the 
scene?  "  I  knew  the  scene  and  explained  somewhat 
about  it  53  5& 

Mr.  Ruskin  has  the  faculty  of  making  his  interviewer 
do  most  of  the  talking.  He  is  a  rare  listener,  and  leans 
forward,  putting  a  hand  behind  his  right  ear  to  get 
each  word  you  say.  He  was  particularly  interested  in 
the  industrial  conditions  of  America,  and  I  soon  found 
myself  "  occupying  the  time,"  while  an  occasional  word 
of  interrogation  from  Mr.  Ruskin  gave  me  no  chance  to 
stop.  I  came  to  hear  him,  not  to  defend  our  "  republican 
experiment,"  as  he  was  pleased  to  call  the  United  States 
of  America.  Yet  Mr.  Ruskin  was  so  gentle  and  respect- 
ful in  his  manner,  and  so  complimentary  in  his  attitude 
of  listener,  that  my  impatience  at  his  want  of  sympathy 
for  our  "  experiment  "  only  caused  me  to  feel  a  little 
heated  33  33 

'  The  fact  of  women  being  elected  to  mayoralties  in 
Kansas  makes  me  think  of  certain  African  tribes  that 
exalt  their  women  into  warriors — you  want  your  women 
to  fight  your  political  battles!  " 

'  You  evidently  hold  the  same  opinion  on  the  subject  of 

93 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


equal  rights  that  you  expressed  some  years  ago,"  inter- 
posed my  companion. 

'  What  did  I  say — really  I  have  forgotten?  " 
'  You  replied  to  a  correspondent,  saying :  '  You  are 
certainly  right  as  to  my  views  respecting  the  female 
franchise.  So  far  from  wishing  to  give  votes  to  women, 
I  would  fain  take  them  away  from  most  men.'  ' 
"  Surely  that  was  a  sensible  answer.  My  respect  for 
woman  is  too  great  to  force  on  her  increased  respon- 
sibilities. Then  as  for  restricting  the  franchise  with  men, 
I  am  of  the  firm  conviction  that  no  man  should  be 
allowed  to  vote  who  does  not  own  property,  or  who  can 
not  do  considerably  more  than  read  and  write.  The 
voter  makes  the  laws,  and  why  should  the  laws  regu- 
lating the  holding  of  property  be  made  by  a  man  who 
has  no  interest  in  property  beyond  a  covetous  desire; 
or  why  should  he  legislate  on  education  when  he  pos- 
sesses none!  Then  again,  women  do  not  bear  arms  to 
protect  the  State." 

'*  But  what  do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Carlock,  who  answers 
that  inasmuch  as  men  do  not  bear  children,  they  have 
no  right  to  vote :  going  to  war  possibly  being  necessary 
and  possibly  not,  but  the  perpetuity  of  the  State 
demanding  that  some  one  bear  children?  " 
'  The  lady's  argument  is  ingenious,  but  lacks  force 
when  we  consider  that  the  bearing  of  arms  is  a  matter 
relating  to  statecraft,  while  the  baby  question  is  Dame 
Nature's  own,  and  is  not  to  be  regulated  even  by  the 
94 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


sovereign."  tjj  Then  Mr.  Ruskin  talked  for  nearly  fifteen 
minutes  on  the  duty  of  the  State  to  the  individual — 
talked  very  deliberately,  but  with  the  clearness  and 
force  of  a  man  who  believes  what  he  says  and  says  what 
he  believes. 

Thus,  my  friend,  by  a  gentle  thrust  under  the  fifth  rib 
of  Mr.  Ruskin's  logic,  caused  him  to  come  to  the  rescue 
of  his  previously  expressed  opinions,  and  we  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  him  discourse  earnestly  and 
eloquently  33  33 

Maiden  ladies  usually  have  an  opinion  ready  on  the 
subject  of  masculine  methods,  and,  conversely,  much 
of  the  world's  logic  on  the  "  woman  question  "  has 
come  from  the  bachelor  brain. 

Mr.  Ruskin  went  quite  out  of  his  way  on  several  occa- 
sions in  times  past  to  attack  John  Stuart  Mill  for  heresy 
"  in  opening  up  careers  for  women  other  than  that  of 
wife  and  mother."  33  When  Mill  did  not  answer 
Mr.  Ruskin's  newspaper  letters,  the  author  of  "Sesame 
and  Lilies"  called  him  a  "cretinous  wretch  "  and  referred 
to  him  as  "  the  man  of  no  imagination."  Mr.  Mill  may 
have  been  a  cretinous  wretch  (I  do  not  exactly  under- 
stand the  phrase),  but  the  preface  to  "On  Liberty  "  is  at 
once  the  tenderest,  highest  and  most  sincere  compliment 
paid  to  a  woman,  of  which  I  know. 
The  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Stuart  Mill  shows  that 
perfect  mating  is  possible;  yet  Mr.  Ruskin  has  only 
scorn  for  the  opinions  of  Mr.  Mill  on  a  subject  which 

95 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


Mill  came  as  near  personally  solving  in  a  matrimonial 
"experiment"  as  any  other  public  man  of  modern  times, 
not  excepting  even  Robert  Browning.  Therefore  we 
might  suppose  Mr.  Mill  entitled  to  speak  on  the  woman 
question,  and  I  intimated  as  much  to  Mr.  Ruskin. 
"  He  might  know  all  about  one  woman,  and  if  he  should 
regard  her  as  a  sample  of  all  womankind,  would  he  not 
make  a  great  mistake?  " 
I  was  silenced. 

In  "Fors  Clavigera,"  Letter  LIX,  the  author  says:  "I 
never  wrote  a  letter  in  my  life  which  all  the  world  is  not 
welcome  to  read."  From  this  one  might  imagine  that 
Mr.  Ruskin  never  loved — no  pressed  flowers  in  books; 
no  passages  of  poetry  double-marked  and  scored;  no 
bundles  of  letters  faded  and  yellow,  sacred  for  his  own 
eye,  tied  with  white  or  dainty  blue  ribbon;  no  little 
nothings  hidden  away  in  the  bottom  of  a  trunk.  And  yet 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  his  ideas  on  the  woman  question,  and 
very  positive  ideas  they  are  too — often  sweetly  sympa- 
thetic and  wisely  helpful. 

I  see  that  one  of  the  encyclopedias  mentions  Ruskin  as  a 
bachelor,  which  is  giving  rather  an  extended  meaning 
to  the  word,  for  although  Mr.  Ruskin  married,  he  was 
not  mated.  According  to  Collingwood's  account,  this 
marriage  was  a  quiet  arrangement  between  parents. 
Anyway,  the  genius  is  like  the  profligate  in  this:  when  he 
marries  he  generally  makes  a  woman  miserable.  And 
misery  is  reactionary  as  well  as  infectious.  Ruskin  is  a 
96 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


genius,  ^f  Genius  is  unique.  No  satisfactory  analysis  of 
it  has  yet  been  given.  We  know  a  few  of  its  indications — 
that 's  all.  First  among  these  is  ability  to  concentrate  33 
No  seed  can  sow  genius;  no  soil  can  grow  it:  its  quality 
is  inborn  and  defies  both  cultivation  and  extermination. 
To  be  surpassed  is  never  pleasant ;  to  feel  your  inferiority 
is  to  feel  a  pang.  Seldom  is  there  a  person  great  enough 
to  find  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  a  friend.  The 
pleasure  that  excellence  gives  is  oft  tainted  by  resent- 
ment; and  so  the  woman  who  marries  a  genius  is  usually 
unhappy  33  33 

Genius  is  excess:  it  is  obstructive  to  little  plans.  It  is 
difficult  to  warm  yourself  at  a  conflagration;  the 
tempest  may  blow  you  away;  the  sun  dazzles;  lightning 
seldom  strikes  gently ;  the  Nile  overflows.  Genius  has  its 
times  of  straying  off  into  the  infinite — and  then  what  is 
the  good  wife  to  do  for  companionship?  Does  she  pro- 
test, and  find  fault?  It  could  not  be  otherwise,  for 
genius  is  dictatorial  without  knowing  it,  obstructive 
without  wishing  to  be,  intolerant  unawares,  and  un- 
social because  it  can  not  help  it. 

The  wife  of  a  genius  sometimes  takes  his  fits  of  abstrac- 
tion for  stupidity,  and  having  the  man's  interests  at 
heart  she  endeavors  to  arouse  him  from  his  lethargy  by 
chiding  him.  Occasionally  he  arouses  enough  to  chide 
back;  and  so  it  has  become  an  axiom  that  genius  is  not 
domestic  33  33 

A  short  period  of  mismated  life  told  the  wife  of  Ruskin 

97 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


their  mistake,  and  she  told  him.  But  Mrs.  Grundy  was 
at  the  keyhole,  ready  to  tell  the  world,  and  so  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ruskin  sought  to  deceive  society  by  pretending 
to  live  together.  They  kept  up  this  appearance  for  six 
sorrowful  years,  and  then  the  lady  simplified  the  situa- 
tion by  packing  her  trunks  and  deliberately  leaving  her 
genius  to  his  chimeras;  her  soul  doubtless  softened  by 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  bestowing  a  benefit  on  him 
by  going  away.  The  lady  afterwards  became  the  happy 
wife  and  helpmeet  of  a  great  artist. 
Ruskin's  father  was  a  prosperous  importer  of  wines.  He 
left  his  son  a  fortune  equal  to  a  little  more  than  one 
million  dollars.  But  that  vast  fortune  has  gone — princi- 
pal and  interest — gone  in  bequests,  gifts  and  experi- 
ments; and  today  Mr.  Ruskin  has  no  income  save  that 
derived  from  the  sale  of  his  books.  Talk  about  "  Distri- 
bution of  Wealth  " !  Here  we  have  it. 
The  bread-and-butter  question  has  never  troubled  John 
Ruskin  except  in  his  ever-ardent  desire  that  others 
should  be  fed.  His  days  have  been  given  to  study  and 
writing  from  his  very  boyhood;  he  has  made  money,  but 
he  has  had  no  time  to  save  it. 

He  has  expressed  himself  on  every  theme  that  interests 
mankind,  except  perhaps  "  housemaid's  knee."  He  has 
written  more  letters  to  the  newspapers  than  "  Old 
Subscriber,"  "  Fiat  Justitia,"  "  Indignant  Reader  " 
and  "  Veritas  "  combined.  His  opinions  have  carried 
much  weight  and  directed  attention  into  necessary 
98 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


lines;  but  perhaps  his  success  as  an  inspirer  of  thought 
lies  in  the  fact  that  his  sense  of  humor  exists  only  as  a 
trace,  as  the  chemist  might  say.  Men  who  perceive  the 
ridiculous  would  never  have  voiced  many  of  the  things 
which  he  has  said. 

Surely  those  Sioux  Indians  who  stretched  a  hay  lariat 
across  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  in  order  to  stop  the 
running  of  trains  had  small  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  But 
it  looks  as  if  they  were  apostles  of  Ruskin,  every  one  33 
Some  one  has  said  that  no  man  can  appreciate  the 
beautiful  who  has  not  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  For 
the  beautiful  is  the  harmonious,  and  the  laughable  is 
the  absence  of  fit  adjustment. 
Mr.  Ruskin  disproves  the  maxim. 

But  let  no  hasty  soul  imagine  that  John  Ruskin's 
opinions  on  practical  themes  are  not  useful.  He  brings 
to  bear  an  energy  on  every  subject  he  touches  (and 
what  subject  has  he  not  touched?)  that  is  sure  to  make 
the  sparks  of  thought  fly.  His  independent  and  fearless 
attitude  awakens  from  slumber  a  deal  of  dozing  intellect, 
and  out  of  this  strife  of  opinion  comes  truth. 
On  account  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  refusing  at  times  to  see 
visitors,  reports  have  gone  abroad  that  his  mind  was 
giving  way.  Not  so,  for  although  he  is  seventy-four  he  is 
as  serenely  stubborn  as  he  ever  was.  His  opposition  to 
new  inventions  in  machinery  has  not  relaxed  a  single 
pulley's  turn.  You  grant  his  premises  and  in  his  con- 
clusions you  will  find  that  his  belt  never  slips,  and  that 

99 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


his  logic  never  jumps  a  cog.  His  life  is  as  regular  and 
exact  as  the  trains  on  the  Great  Western,  and  his  days 
are  more  peaceful  than  ever  before.  He  has  regular 
hours  for  writing,  study,  walking,  reading,  eating,  and 
working  out  of  doors,  superintending  the  cultivation  of 
his  hundred  acres.  He  told  me  that  he  had  not  varied 
a  half-hour  in  two  years  from  a  certain  time  of  going  to 
bed  or  getting  up  in  the  morning.  Although  his  form  is 
bowed,  this  regularity  of  life  has  borne  fruit  in  the  rich 
russet  of  his  complexion,  the  mild,  clear  eye,  and  the 
pleasure  in  living  in  spite  of  occasional  pain,  which  you 
know  the  man  feels.  His  hair  is  thick  and  nearly  white; 
the  beard  is  now  worn  quite  long  and  gives  a  patriarchal 
appearance  to  the  fine  face. 

When  we  arose  to  take  our  leave,  Mr.  Ruskin  took  a 
white  felt  hat  from  the  elk-antlers  in  the  hallway  and 
a  stout  stick  from  the  corner,  and  offered  to  show  us 
a  nearer  way  back  to  the  village.  We  walked  down  a 
footpath  through  the  tall  grass  to  the  lake,  where  he 
called  our  attention  to  various  varieties  of  ferns  that  he 
had  transplanted  there. 

We  shook  hands  with  the  old  gentleman  and  thanked 
him  for  the  pleasure  he  had  given  us.  He  was  still 
examining  the  ferns  when  we  lifted  our  hats  and  bade 
him  good-day  53  He  evidently  did  not  hear  us,  for  I 
heard  him  mutter:  "  I  verily  believe  those  miserable 
Cook's  tourists  that  were  down  here  yesterday  picked 
some  of  my  ferns." 
100 


WILLIAM  E.  GLADSTONE 


As  the  aloe  is  said  to  flower  only  once  in  a  hundred  years, 
so  it  seems  to  be  but  once  in  a  thousand  years  that 
Nature  blossoms  into  this  unrivaled  product  and 
produces  such  a  man  as  we  have  here. 

— Gladstone,  "  Lecture  on  Homer  " 


WILLIAM    E.  GLADSTONE 


WILLIAM  E.  GLADSTONE 


MERICAN  travelers  in  England  are 
said  to  accumulate  sometimes  large 
and  unique  assortments  of  lisps, 
drawls  and  other  very  peculiar 
things.  Of  the  value  of  these  acquire- 
ments as  regards  their  use  and 
beauty,  I  have  not  room  here  to 
speak.  But  there  is  one  adjunct 
which  England  has  that  we  positively  need,  and  that  is 
"  Boots."  It  may  be  that  Boots  is  indigenous  to  Eng- 
land's soil,  and  that  when  transplanted  he  withers  and 
dies;  perhaps  there  is  a  quality  in  our  atmosphere  that 
kills  him.  Anyway,  we  have  no  Boots. 
When  trouble,  adversity  or  bewilderment  comes  to  the 
homesick  traveler  in  an  American  hotel,  to  whom  can 
he  turn  for  consolation  ">  Alas,  the  porter  is  afraid  of  the 
"  guest,"  and  all  guests  are  afraid  of  the  clerk,  and 
the  proprietor  is  never  seen,  and  the  Afro-Americans  in 
the  dining-room  are  stupid,  and  the  chambermaid  does 
not  answer  the  ring,  and  at  last  the  weary  wanderer  hies 
him  to  the  barroom  and  soon  discovers  that  the  worthy 
"  barkeep  "  has  nothing  to  recommend  him  but  his 
diamond-pin.  How  different,  yes,  how  different,  this 
would  all  be  if  Boots  were  only  here!  At  the  quaint  old 
city  of  Chester  I  was  met  at  the  "  sti-shun  "  by  the 
Boots  of  that  excellent  though  modest  hotel  which 

103 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


stands  only  a  block  away.  Boots  picked  out  my  baggage 
without  my  looking  for  it,  took  me  across  to  the  Inn, 
and  showed  me  to  the  daintiest,  most  homelike  little 
room  I  had  seen  for  weeks.  On  the  table  was  a  tastefully 
decorated  "  jug,"  evidently  just  placed  there  in  antici- 
pation of  my  arrival,  and  in  this  jug  was  a  large  bunch 
of  gorgeous  roses,  the  morning  dew  still  on  them. 
When  Boots  had  brought  me  hot  water  for  shaving  he 
disappeared  and  did  not  come  back  until,  by  the  use  of 
telepathy  (for  Boots  is  always  psychic),  I  had  sent  him  a 
message  that  he  was  needed.  In  the  afternoon  he  went 
with  me  to  get  a  draft  cashed,  then  he  identified  me  at 
the  post-office,  and  introduced  me  to  a  dignitary  at  the 
cathedral  whose  courtesy  added  greatly  to  my  enjoy- 
ment of  the  visit. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast,  when  I  returned  to 
my  room,  everything  was  put  to  rights  and  a  fresh 
bouquet  of  cut  flowers  was  on  the  mantel.  A  good  break- 
fast adds  much  to  one's  inward  peace :  I  sat  down  before 
the  open  window  and  looked  out  at  the  great  oaks 
dotting  the  green  meadows  that  stretched  away  to  the 
north,  and  listened  to  the  drowsy  tinkle  of  sheep-bells 
as  the  sound  came  floating  in  on  the  perfumed  breeze. 
I  was  thinking  how  good  it  was  to  be  here,  when  the 
step  of  Boots  was  heard  in  the  doorway.  I  turned  and 
saw  that  mine  own  familiar  friend  had  lost  a  little  of  his 
calm  self-reliance — in  fact,  he  was  a  bit  agitated,  but  he 
soon  recovered  his  breath. 
104 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


"  Mr.  Gladstone  and  'is  Lady  'ave  just  arrived,  sir — 
they  will  be  'ere  for  an  hour  before  taking  the  train  for 
Lunnon,  sir.  I  told  'is  dark  there  was  a  party  of  Ameri- 
cans 'ere  that  were  very  anxious  to  meet  'im,  and  he  will 
receive  you  in  the  parlor  in  fifteen  minutes,  sir." 
Then  it  was  my  turn  to  be  agitated.  But  Boots  re- 
assured me  by  explaining  that  the  Grand  Old  Man  was 
just  the  plainest,  most  unpretentious  gentleman  one 
could  imagine;  that  it  was  not  at  all  necessary  that  I 
should  change  my  suit;  that  I  should  pronounce  it 
Gladstun,  not  Glad-stone,  and  that  it  was  Harden,  not 
Ha-war-den.  Then  he  stood  me  up,  looked  me  over,  and 
declared  that  I  was  all  right. 

On  going  downstairs  I  found  that  Boots  had  gotten 
together  five  Americans  who  happened  to  be  in  the 
hotel.  He  introduced  us  to  a  bright  little  man  who 
seemed  to  be  the  companion  or  secretary  of  the  Prime 
Minister;  he,  in  turn,  took  us  into  the  parlor  where 
Mr.  Gladstone  sat  reading  the  morning  paper,  and 
presented  us  one  by  one  to  the  great  man.  We  were 
each  greeted  with  a  pleasant  word  and  a  firm  grasp  of 
the  hand,  and  then  the  old  gentleman  turned  and  with 
a  courtly  flourish  said,  "  Gentlemen,  allow  me  to 
present  you  to  Mrs.  Gladstone." 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  wise:  he  remained  standing;  this  was 
sure  to  shorten  the  interview.  A  clergyman  in  our  party 
who  had  an  impressive  cough  and  bushy  whiskers,  acted 
as  spokesman,  and  said  several  pleasant  things,  closing 

105 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


his  little  speech  by  informing  Mr.  Gladstone  that 
Americans  held  him  in  great  esteem,  and  that  we  only 
regretted  that  Fate  had  not  decreed  that  he  should  have 
been  born  in  the  United  States. 

Mr.  Gladstone  replied,  "  Fate  is  often  unkind."  Then 
he  asked  if  we  were  going  to  London.  On  being  told  that 
we  were,  he  spoke  for  five  minutes  about  the  things  we 
should  see  in  the  Metropolis.  His  style  was  not  con- 
versational, but  after  the  manner  of  a  man  who  was 
much  used  to  speaking  in  public  or  to  receiving  delega- 
tions. The  sentences  were  stately,  the  voice  rather  loud 
and  declamatory.  His  closing  words  were:  '  Yes, 
gentlemen,  the  way  to  see  London  is  from  the  top  of  a 
'bus — from  the  top  of  a  'bus,  gentlemen."  Then  there 
was  an  almost  imperceptible  wave  of  the  hand,  and  we 
knew  that  the  interview  was  ended.  In  a  moment  we 
were  outside  and  the  door  was  closed. 
The  five  Americans  who  made  up  our  little  company 
had  never  met  before,  but  now  we  were  as  brothers ;  we 
adjourned  to  a  side-room  to  talk  it  over  and  tell  of  the 
things  we  intended  to  say  but  did  n't.  We  all  talked  and 
talked  at  once,  just  as  people  do  who  have  recently 
preserved  an  enforced  silence. 
44  How  ill-fitting  was  that  gray  suit!  " 
'  Yes,  the  sleeves  too  long." 

44  Did  you  notice  the  absence  of  the  forefinger  of  his  left 
hand — shot  off  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Forty-five  while 
hunting,  they  say." 
106 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


"  But  how  strong  his  voice  is!  "*I  "  He  looks  like  a 
farmer." 

"Eighty-five   years   of   age!   Think   of   it,    and   how 
vigorous!  " 

Then  the  preacher  spoke  and  his  voice  was  sorrowful: 
"  Oh,  but  I  made  a  botch  of  it — was  it  sarcasm  or  was 
it  not?  "  33  33 
'  Was  what  sarcasm?  " 

"  When  Mr.  Gladstone  said  that  Fate  was  unkind  in  not 
having  him  born  in  the  United  States!  " 
And  we  were  all  silent.  Then  Boots  came  in,  and  we  put 
the  question  to  Boots,  who  decided  it  was  not  sarcasm. 
The  next  day,  when  we  went  away,  we  rewarded  Boots 
bountifully  33  33 


107 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


ILLIAM  GLADSTONE  is  England's  glory. 

Yet  there  is  no  English  blood  in  his  veins; 

his  parents  were  Scotch.  Aside  from  Lord 

Brougham,  he  is  the  only  Scotchman  who 
has  ever  taken  a  prominent  part  in  British  statecraft. 
The  name  as  we  first  find  it  is  Gled-stane,  "  gled  " 
being  a  hawk — literally,  a  hawk  that  lives  among  the 
stones.  Surely  the  hawk  is  fully  as  respectable  a  bird  as 
the  eagle,  and  a  goodly  amount  of  granite  in  the  clay 
that  is  used  to  make  a  man  is  no  disadvantage.  The 
name  fits. 

There  are  deep-rooted  theories  in  the  minds  of  manymen 
(and  still  more  women)  that  bad  boys  make  good  men, 
and  that  a  dash  of  the  pirate,  even  in  a  prelate,  does  not 
disqualify.  But  I  wish  to  come  to  the  defense  of  the 
Sunday-school  story-books  and  show  that  their  very 
prominent  moral  is  right  after  all :  it  pays  to  be  "  good." 
<I  William  Ewart  Gladstone  was  sent  to  Eton  when 
twelve  years  of  age.  From  the  first,  his  conduct  was  a 
model  of  propriety.  He  attended  every  chapel  service, 
and  said  his  prayers  in  the  morning  and  before  going  to 
bed  at  night;  he  could  repeat  the  catechism  backwards 
or  forwards,  and  recite  more  verses  of  Scripture  than 
any  other  boy  in  school. 

He  always  spoke  the  truth.  He  never  played  "  hookey  " ; 
nor,  as  he  grew  older,  would  he  tell  stories  of  doubtful 
flavor,  or  allow  others  to  relate  such  in  his  presence.  His 
influence  was  for  good,  and  Cardinal  Manning  has  said 
108 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


that  there  was  less  wine  drunk  at  Oxford  during  the 
Forties  than  would  have  been  the  case  if  Gladstone  had 
not  been  there  in  the  Thirties. 

He  graduated  from  Christchurch  with  the  highest  pos- 
sible honors  the  college  could  bestow,  and  at  twenty- 
two  he  seemed  like  one  who  had  sprung  into  life  full- 
armed  53  53 

At  that  time  he  had  magnificent  health,  a  fine  form, 
vast  and  varied  knowledge,  and  a  command  of  language 
so  great  that  he  was  a  master  of  forensics.  His  speeches 
were  fully  equal  to  his  later  splendid  efforts.  In  feature 
he  was  handsome:  the  face  bold  and  masculine;  eyes  of 
piercing  luster;  and  hair,  which  he  tossed  when  in 
debate,  like  a  lion's  mane.  He  could  speak  five  languages, 
sing  tenor,  dance  gracefully,  and  was  on  more  than 
speaking  terms  with  many  of  the  best  and  greatest  men 
in  England.  Besides  all  this  he  was  rich  in  British  gold. 
*I  Now,  here  is  a  combination  of  good  things  that  would 
send  most  young  men  straight  to  perdition — not  so 
Gladstone.  He  took  the  best  care  of  his  health,  system- 
atized his  time  as  a  miser  might,  listened  not  to  the 
flatterers,  and  used  his  money  only  for  good  purposes. 
His  intention  was  to  enter  the  Church,  but  his  father 
said,  "  Not  yet,"  and  half-forced  him  into  politics.  So, 
at  this  early  age  of  twenty-two,  he  ran  for  Parliament, 
was  elected,  and  has  practically  never  been  out  of  the 
shadow  of  Westminster  Palace  during  these  sixty-odd 
years  53  53 

109 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


At  thirty-three,  he  was  a  member  of  the  Cabinet.  At 
thirty-six,  his  absolute  honesty  compelled  him  for 
conscience'  sake  to  resign  from  the  Ministry.  His 
opponents  then  said,  "  Gladstone  is  an  extinct  volcano," 
and  they  have  said  this  again  and  again ;  but  somehow 
the  volcano  always  breaks  out  in  a  new  place,  stronger 
and  brighter  than  ever.  It  is  difficult  to  subdue  a  volcano. 
*IWhen  twenty-nine,  he  married  Catherine  Glynne, 
sister  and  heir  of  Sir  Stephen  Glynne,  Baronet.  The 
marriage  was  most  fortunate  in  every  way.  For  over 
fifty  years  this  most  excellent  woman  has  been  his 
comrade,  counselor,  consolation,  friend — his  wife  3$ 
"  How  can  any  adversity  come  to  him  who  hath  a  wife  ?  " 
said  Chaucer. 

If  this  splendid  woman  had  died,  then  his  opponents 
might  truthfully  have  said,  "  Gladstone  is  an  extinct 
volcano  ";  but  she  is  still  with  him,  and  a  short  time 
ago,  when  he  had  to  undergo  an  operation  for  cataract, 
this  woman  of  eighty  was  his  only  nurse. 
The  influence  of  Gladstone  has  been  of  untold  value  to 
England.  His  ideals  for  national  action  have  been  high. 
To  the  material  prosperity  of  the  country  he  has  added 
millions  upon  millions ;  he  has  made  education  popular, 
and  schooling  easy ;  his  policy  in  the  main  has  been  such 
as  to  command  the  admiration  of  the  good  and  great. 
But  there  are  spots  on  the  sun. 

On  reading  Mr.  Gladstone's  books  I  find  he  has  vigor- 
ously defended  certain  measures  that  seem  unworthy  of 
110 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


his  genius.  He  has  palliated  human  slavery  as  a  "  neces- 
sary evil";  has  maintained  the  visibility  and  divine 
authority  of  the  Church ;  has  asserted  the  mathematical 
certainty  of  the  historic  episcopate,  the  mystical  efficacy 
of  the  sacraments;  and  has  vindicated  the  Church  of 
England  as  the  God-appointed  guardian  of  truth. 
He  has  fought  bitterly  any  attempt  to  improve  the 
divorce-laws  of  England.  Much  has  been  done  in  this 
line,  even  in  spite  of  his  earnest  opposition,  but  we  now 
owe  it  to  Mr.  Gladstone  that  there  is  on  England's 
law-books  a  statute  providing  that  if  a  wife  leaves  her 
husband  he  can  invoke  a  magistrate,  whose  duty  it  will 
then  be  to  issue  a  writ  and  give  it  to  an  officer,  who  will 
bring  her  back.  More  than  this,  when  the  officer  has 
returned  the  woman,  the  loving  husband  has  the  legal 
right  to  "  reprove  "  her.  Just  what  reprove  means  the 
courts  have  not  yet  determined;  for,  in  a  recent  deci- 
sion, when  a  costermonger  admitted  having  given  his 
lady  "  a  taste  of  the  cat,"  the  prisoner  was  discharged 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  only  needed  reproof. 
I  would  not  complain  of  this  law  if  it  worked  both  ways; 
but  no  wife  can  demand  that  the  State  shall  return  her 
"  man  "  willy-nilly.  And  if  she  administers  reproof  to 
her  mate,  she  does  it  without  the  sanction  of  the 
Sovereign  33  33 

However,  in  justice  to  Englishmen,  it  should  be  stated 
that  while  this  unique  law  still  stands  on  the  statute- 
books,  it  is  very  seldom  that  a  man  in  recent  years  has 

111 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


stooped  to  invoke  it.  <IOn  all  the  questions  I  have 
named,  from  slavery  to  divorce,  Mr.  Gladstone  has 
used  the  "  Bible  argument."  But  as  the  years  have  gone 
by,  his  mind  has  become  liberalized,  and  on  many  points 
where  he  was  before  zealous  he  is  now  silent.  In  Eight- 
een Hundred  Forty-one,  he  argued  with  much  skill  and 
ingenuity  that  Jews  were  not  entitled  to  full  rights  of 
citizenship,  but  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Forty-seven, 
acknowledging  his  error,  he  took  the  other  side. 
During  the  War  of  Secession  the  sympathies  of  Eng- 
land's Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  were  with  the 
South.  Speaking  at  Newcastle  on  October  Ninth, 
Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty- two,  he  said,  "  Jefferson  Davis 
has  undoubtedly  founded  a  new  nation."  But  five  years 
passed,  and  he  publicly  confessed  that  he  was  wrong  5S 
Here  is  a  man  who,  if  he  should  err  deeply,  is  yet  so 
great  that,  like  Cotton  Mather,  he  might  not  hesitate  to 
stand  uncovered  on  the  street-corners  and  ask  the 
forgiveness  of  mankind.  Such  men  are  saved  by  their 
enemies.  Their  own  good  and  the  good  of  humanity 
require  that  their  balance  of  power  shall  not  be  too 
great.  Had  the  North  gone  down,  Gladstone  might 
never  have  seen  his  mistake.  In  this  instance  and  in 
many  others,  he  has  not  been  the  leader  of  progress, 
but  its  echo:  truth  has  been  forced  upon  him.  His 
passionate  earnestness,  his  intense  volition,  his  insen- 
sibility to  moral  perspective,  his  blindness  to  the  sense 
of  proportion,  might  have  led  him  into  dangerous  excess 
112 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


and  frightful  fanatical  error,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact 
that  such  men  create  an  opposition  that  is  their  salvation. 
<J  To  analyze  a  character  so  complex  as  Mr.  Gladstone's 
requires  the  grasp  of  genius.  We  speak  of  "  the  duality 
of  the  human  mind,"  but  here  are  half  a  dozen  spirits  in 
one.  They  rule  in  turn,  and  occasionally  several  of  them 
struggle  for  the  mastery. 

When  the  Fisk  Jubilee  Singers  visited  England,  we  find 
Gladstone  dropping  the  affairs  of  State  to  hear  their 
music.  He  invited  them  to  Hawarden,  where  he  sang 
with  them.  So  impressed  was  he  with  the  negro  melodies 
that  he  anticipated  that  idea  which  has  since  been 
materialized :  the  founding  of  a  national  school  of  music 
that  would  seek  to  perfect  in  a  scientific  way  these  soul- 
stirring  strains. 

He  might  have  made  a  poet  of  no  mean  order;  for  his 
devotion  to  spiritual  and  physical  beauty  has  made  him 
a  lifelong  admirer  of  Homer  and  Dante.  Those  who  have 
met  him  when  the  mood  was  upon  him  have  heard  him 
recite  by  the  hour  from  the  "  Iliad  "  in  the  original.  And 
yet  the  theology  of  Homer  belongs  to  the  realm  of  natural 
religion  with  which  Mr.  Gladstone  has  little  patience. 
*|  A  prominent  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  once 
said,  "  The  only  two  things  that  the  Prime  Minister 
really  cares  for  are  religion  and  finance."  The  statement 
comes  near  truth;  for  the  chief  element  in  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's character  is  his  devotion  to  religion;  and  his 
signal  successes  have  been  in  the  line  of  economics.  He 

113 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


believes  in  Free  Trade  as  the  gospel  of  social  salvation. 
He  revels  in  figures;  he  has  price,  value,  consumption, 
distribution,  import,  export,  fluctuation,  all  at  his 
tongue's  end,  ready  to  hurl  at  any  one  who  ventures  on 
a  hasty  generalization. 

And  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  in  his  strong  appeal  for 
the  disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church,  the  stress  of 
his  argument  was  put  on  the  point  that  the  Irish  Church 
was  not  in  the  line  of  the  apostolic  succession. 
Mr.  Gladstone  is  grave,  sober,  earnest,  proud,  passion- 
ate, and  at  times  romantic  to  a  rare  degree.  He  rebukes, 
refutes,  contradicts,  defies,  and  has  a  magnificent 
capacity  for  indignation.  He  will  roar  you  like  a  lion, 
his  eyes  will  flash,  and  his  clenched  fist  will  shake  as  he 
denounces  that  which  he  believes  to  be  error.  And  yet 
among  inferiors  he  will  consult,  defer,  inquire,  and  show 
a  humility,  a  forced  suavity,  that  has  given  the  cari- 
caturist excuse. 

In  his  home  he  is  gentle,  amiable,  always  kind,  social 
and  hospitable.  He  loves  deeply,  and  his  friends  revere 
him  to  a  point  that  is  but  little  this  side  of  idolatry.  And 
surely  their  affection  is  not  misplaced. 
Some  day  a  Plutarch  without  a  Plutarch's  prejudice  will 
arise,  and  with  malice  toward  none,  but  with  charity 
for  all,  he  will  write  the  life  of  the  statesman,  Gladstone. 
Over  against  this  he  will  write  the  life  of  an  American 
statesman.  The  name  he  will  choose  will  be  that  of  one 
born  in  a  log  hut  in  the  forest;  who  was  rocked  by  the 
114 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


foot  of  a  mother  whose  hands  meanwhile  were  busy  at 
her  wheel ;  who  had  no  schooling,  no  wise  and  influential 
friends ;  who  had  few  books  and  little  time  to  read ;  who 
knew  no  formal  religion;  who  never  traveled  out  of  his 
own  country;  who  had  no  helpmeet,  but  who  walked 
solitary — alone,  a  man  of  sorrows;  down  whose  homely, 
furrowed  face  the  tears  of  pity  often  ran,  and  yet  whose 
name,  strange  paradox!  stands  in  many  minds  as  a 
symbol  of  mirth. 

And  when  the  master  comes,  who  has  the  power  to 
portray  with  absolute  fidelity  the  greatness  of  these  two 
men,  will  it  be  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  American?  53 


115 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


HE  village  of  Hawarden  is  in  Flintshire,  North 
Wales.  It  is  seven  miles  from  Chester.  I 
walked  the  distance  one  fine  June  morning — 
out  across  the  battlefield  where  Cromwell's 
army  crushed  that  of  Charles;  and  on  past  old  stone 
walls  and  stately  elms. 

There  had  been  a  shower  the  night  before,  but  the 
morning  sun  came  out  bright  and  warm  and  made  the 
raindrops  glisten  like  beads  as  they  clung  to  each  leaf 
and  flower.  Larks  sang  and  soared,  and  great  flocks  of 
crows  called  and  cawed  as  they  flew  lazily  across  the 
sky.  It  was  a  time  for  silent  peace,  and  quiet  joy,  and 
serene  thankfulness  for  life  and  health. 
I  walked  leisurely,  and  in  a  little  over  two  hours  reached 
Hawarden — a  cluster  of  plain  stone  houses  with  climb- 
ing vines  and  flowers  and  gardens,  which  told  of  homely 
thrift  and  simple  tastes.  I  went  straight  to  the  old  stone 
church,  which  is  always  open,  and  rested  for  half  an 
hour,  listening  to  the  organ  on  which  a  young  girl  was 
practising,  instructed  by  a  white-haired  old  gentleman. 
*JThe  church  is  dingy  and  stained  inside  and  out  by 
time.  The  pews  are  irregular,  some  curiously  carved, 
and  all  stiff  and  uncomfortable.  I  walked  around  and 
read  the  inscriptions  on  the  walls,  and  all  the  time  the 
young  girl  played  and  the  old  gentleman  beat  time,  and 
neither  noticed  my  presence.  One  brass  tablet  I  saw  was 
to  a  woman  "  who  for  long  years  was  a  faithful  servant 
at  Hawarden  Castle — erected  in  gratitude  by  W.  E.  G." 
116 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


Near  this  was  a  memorial  to  W.  H.  Gladstone,  son  of  the 
Premier,  who  died  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-one. 
Then  there  were  inscriptions  to  various  Glynnes  and 
several  others  whose  names  appear  in  English  history. 
I  stood  at  the  reading-desk,  where  the  great  man  has  so 
often  read,  and  marked  the  spot  where  William  Ewart 
Gladstone  and  Catherine  Glynne  knelt  when  they  were 
married  here  in  July,  Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-nine  3& 
A  short  distance  from  the  church  is  the  entrance  to 
Hawarden  Park.  This  fine  property  was  the  inheritance 
of  Mrs.  Gladstone;  the  park  itself  seems  to  belong  to  the 
public.  If  Mr.  Gladstone  were  a  plain  citizen,  people,  of 
course,  would  not  come  by  hundreds  and  picnic  on  his 
preserve,  but  serving  the  State,  he  and  his  possessions 
belong  to  the  people,  and  this  democratic  familiarity 
is  rather  pleasing  than  otherwise.  So  great  has  been  the 
throng  in  times  past,  that  an  iron  fence  had  to  be  placed 
about  the  ivy-covered  ruins  of  the  ancient  castle,  to 
protect  it  from  those  who  threatened  to  carry  it  away 
by  the  pocketful.  A  wall  has  also  been  put  around  the 
present "  castle  "  (more  properly,  house).  This  was  done 
some  years  ago,  I  was  told  by  the  butler,  after  a  torchlight 
procession  of  a  thousand  enthusiastic  admirers  had  come 
down  from  Liverpool  and  trampled  Mrs.  Gladstone's 
flowers  into  *'  smithereens." 

The  park  contains  many  hundred  acres,  and  is  as 
beautiful  as  an  English  park  can  be,  and  this  is  praise 
superlative.  Flocks  of  sheep  wander  over  the  soft,  green 

117 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


turf,  and  beneath  the  spreading  trees  are  sleek  cows 
which  seem  used  to  visitors,  and  with  big,  open  eyes 
come  up  to  be  petted. 

Occasional  signs  are  seen:  "  Please  spare  the  trees." 
Some  people  suppose  that  this  is  an  injunction  which 
Mr.  Gladstone  himself  has  never  observed.  But  when  in 
his  tree-cutting  days,  no  monarch  of  the  forest  was  ever 
felled  without  its  case  being  fully  tried  by  the  entire 
household.  Ruskin,  once,  visiting  at  Hawarden,  sat  as 
judge,  and  after  listening  to  the  evidence  gave  sentence 
against  several  trees  that  were  rotten  at  the  core  or 
overshadowing  their  betters.  Then  the  Prime  Minister 
shouldered  his  faithful  "  snickersnee  "  and  went  forth 
as  executioner. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  stumps,  and  on  inquiry  was  told  that 
they  were  all  dug  out,  and  the  ground  leveled  so  no 
trace  was  left  of  the  offender. 

The  "  lady  of  the  house  "  at  Hawarden  is  the  second 
daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gladstone.  All  accounts  agree 
that  she  is  a  most  capable  and  excellent  woman.  She  is 
her  father's  "  home  secretaiy  "  and  confidante,  and  in 
his  absence  takes  full  charge  of  the  mail  and  looks  after 
important  business  affairs.  Her  husband,  the  Reverend 
Harry  Drew,  is  rector  of  Hawarden  Church.  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Drew  and  found  him  very 
cordial  and  perfectly  willing  to  talk  about  the  great 
man  who  is  grandfather  to  his  baby.  We  also  talked  of 
America,  and  I  soon  surmised  that  Mr.  Drew's  ideas  of 
IIS 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


'  The  States  "  were  largely  derived  from  a  visit  to  the 
Wild  West  Show.  So  I  put  the  question  to  him  direct: 
"  Did  you  see  Buffalo  Bill?  " 

«  s-\l  »» 

Oh,  yes. 

"  And  did  Mr.  Gladstone  go?  " 

"  Not  only  once,  but  three  times,  and  he  cheered  as 
loudly  as  any  boy." 

The  Gladstone  residence  is  a  great,  rambling,  stone 
structure  to  which  additions  have  been  made  from 
one  generation  to  another.  The  towers  and  battlements 
are  merely  architectural  appendiculse,  but  the  effect  of 
the  whole,  when  viewed  from  a  distance,  rising  out  of  its 
wealth  of  green  and  backed  by  the  forest,  is  very  imposing. 
*I  I  entered  only  the  spacious  front  hallway  and  one 
room — the  library.  Bookshelves  and  books  and  more 
books  were  everywhere;  several  desks  of  different 
designs  (one  an  American  roll-top),  as  if  the  owner 
transacted  business  at  one,  translated  Homer  at  another, 
and  wrote  social  letters  from  a  third.  Then  there  were 
several  large  Japanese  vases,  a  tiger-skin,  beautiful 
rugs,  a  few  large  paintings,  and  in  a  rack  a  full  dozen 
axes  and  twice  as  many  "  sticks." 

The  whole  place  has  an  air  of  easy  luxury  that  speaks  of 
peace  and  plenty,  of  quiet  and  rest,  of  gentle  thoughts 
and  calm  desires. 

As  I  walked  across  toward  the  village,  the  church-bell 
slowly  pealed  the  hour;  over  the  distant  valley,  night 
hovered ;  a  streak  of  white  mist,  trailing  like  a  thin  veil, 

119 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE 


marked  the  passage  of  the  murmuring  brook.  I  thought 
of  the  grand  old  man  over  whose  domain  I  was  now 
treading,  and  my  wonder  was,  not  that  one  should  live 
so  long  and  still  be  vigorous,  but  that  a  man  should  live 
in  such  an  idyllic  spot,  with  love  and  books  to  keep 
him  company,  and  yet  grow  old. 


120 


J.  M.  W.  TURNER 


I  believe  that  these  works  of  Turner's  are  at  their  first 
appearing  as  perfect  as  those  of  Phidias  or  Leonardo, 
that  is  to  say,  incapable  of  any  improvement  con- 
ceivable by  human  mind. 

— -John  Raskin 


J.  M.  W.  TURNER 


-v-- 


J.  M.  W.  TURNER 


HE  beauty  of  the  upper  Thames  with 
its  fairy  house-boats  and  green 
banks  has  been  sung  by  poets,  but 
rash  is  the  minstrel  who  tunes  his 
lyre  to  sound  the  praises  of  this 
muddy  stream  in  the  vicinity  of 
Chelsea.  As  yellow  as  the  Tiber  and 
thick  as  the  Missouri  after  a  flood, 
it  comes  twice  a  day  bearing  upon  its  tossing  tide  a 
unique  assortment  of  uncanny  sights  and  sickening 
smells  from  the  swarming  city  of  men  below. 
Chelsea  was  once  a  country  village  six  miles  from 
London  Bridge.  Now  the  far-reaching  arms  of  the 
metropolis  have  taken  it  as  her  own. 
Chelsea  may  be  likened  to  some  rare  spinster,  grown  old 
with  years  and  good  works,  and  now  having  a  safe 
home  with  a  rich  and  powerful  benefactress.  Yet  Chel- 
sea is  not  handsome  in  her  old  age,  and  Chelsea  was  not 
pretty  in  youth,  nor  fair  to  view  in  middle  life;  but 
Chelsea  has  been  the  foster-mother  of  several  of  the 
rarest  and  fairest  souls  who  have  ever  made  the  earth 
pilgrimage  5$  33 

And  the  greatness  of  genius  still  rests  upon  Chelsea. 
As  we  walk  slowly  through  its  winding  ways,  by  the 
edge  of  its  troubled  waters,  among  dark  and  crooked 
turns,  through  curious  courts,  by  old  gateways  and  piles 

123 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


of  steepled  stone,  where  flocks  of  pigeons  wheel,  and  bells 
chime,  and  organs  peal,  and  winds  sigh,  we  know  that 
all  has  been  sanctified  by  their  presence.  And  their 
spirits  abide  with  us,  and  the  splendid  beauty  of  their 
visions  is  about  us.  For  the  stones  beneath  our  feet  have 
been  hallowed  by  their  tread,  and  the  walls  have  borne 
their  shadows;  so  all  mean  things  are  transfigured  and 
over  all  these  plain  and  narrow  streets  their  glory  gleams. 
*I  And  it  is  the  great  men  and  they  alone  that  can  render 
a  place  sacred.  Chelsea  is  now  to  the  lovers  of  the 
Beautiful  a  sacred  name,  a  sacred  soil;  a  place  of  pil- 
grimage where  certain  gods  of  Art  once  lived,  and  loved, 
and  worked,  and  died. 

Sir  Thomas  More  lived  here  and  had  for  a  frequent 
guest  Erasmus.  Hans  Sloane  began  in  Chelsea  the  col- 
lection of  curiosities  which  has  now  developed  into  the 
British  Museum.  Bishop  Atterbury  (who  claimed  that 
Dryden  was  a  greater  poet  than  Shakespeare),  Dean 
Swift  and  Doctor  Arbuthnot,  all  lived  in  Church  Street ; 
Richard  Steele  just  around  the  corner  and  Leigh  Hunt 
in  Cheyne  Row;  but  it  was  from  another  name  that  the 
little  street  was  to  be  immortalized. 
If  France  constantly  has  forty  Immortals  in  the  flesh, 
surely  it  is  a  modest  claim  to  say  that  Chelsea  has  three 
for  all  time:  Thomas  Carlyle,  George  Eliot  and  Joseph 
Mallord  William  Turner. 

Turner's  father  was  a  barber.  His  youth  was  passed  in 
poverty  and  his  advantages  for  education  were  very 
124 


J.   M.   W.    TURNER 


slight.  And  all  this  in  the  crowded  city  of  London, 
where  merit  may  knock  long  and  still  not  be  heard,  and 
in  a  country  where  wealth  and  title  count  for  much  53 
When  a  boy,  barefoot  and  ragged,  he  would  wander 
away  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  river  and  dream  dreams 
about  wonderful  palaces  and  beautiful  scenes;  and  then 
he  would  trace  with  a  stick  in  the  sands,  endeavoring, 
with  mud,  to  make  plain  to  the  eye  the  things  that  his 
soul  saw  5$  5$ 

His  mother  was  quite  sure  that  no  good  could  come 
from  this  vagabondish  nature,  and  she  did  not  spare  the 
rod,  for  she  feared  that  the  desire  to  scrawl  and  daub 
would  spoil  the  child.  But  he  was  a  stubborn  lad,  with  a 
pug-nose  and  big,  dreamy,  wondering  eyes,  and  a  heavy 
jaw;  and  when  parents  see  that  they  have  such  a  son, 
they  had  better  hang  up  the  rod  behind  the  kitchen- 
door  and  lay  aside  force  and  cease  scolding.  For  love  is 
better  than  a  cat-o'-nine-tails,  and  sympathy  saves  more 
souls  than  threats. 

The  elder  Turner  considered  that  the  proper  use  of  a 
brush  was  to  lather  chins.  But  the  boy  thought  differ- 
ently, and  once  surreptitiously  took  one  of  his  father's 
brushes  to  paint  a  picture;  the  brush  on  being  returned 
to  its  cup  was  used  the  next  day  upon  a  worthy  haber- 
dasher, whose  cheeks  were  shortly  colored  a  vermilion 
that  matched  his  nose.  This  lost  the  barber  a  customer 
and  secured  the  boy  a  thrashing. 

Young  Turner  did  not  always  wash  his  father's  shop- 

125 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


windows  well,  nor  sweep  off  the  sidewalk  properly.  Like 
all  boys  he  would  rather  work  for  some  one  else  than  for 
"  his  folks." 

He  used  to  run  errands  for  an  engraver  by  the  name  of 
Smith — John  Raphael  Smith.  Once,  when  Smith  sent 
the  barber's  boy  with  a  letter  to  a  certain  art-gallery 
with  orders  to  "  get  the  answer  and  hurry  back,  mind 
you!  "  the  boy  forgot  to  get  the  answer  and  to  hurry 
back.  Then  another  boy  was  dispatched  after  the  first, 
and  boy  Number  Two  found  boy  Number  One  sitting, 
with  staring  eyes  and  open  mouth,  in  the  art-gallery 
before  a  painting  of  Claude  Lorraine's.  When  boy 
Number  One  was  at  last  forcibly  dragged  away,  and 
reached  the  shop  of  his  master,  he  got  his  ears  well 
cuffed  for  his  forgetfulness.  But  from  that  day  forth  he 
was  not  the  same  being  that  he  had  been  before  his  eyes 
fell  on  that  Claude  Lorraine. 

He  was  transformed,  as  much  so  as  was  Lazarus  after  he 
was  called  from  beyond  the  portals  of  death  and  had 
come  back  to  earth,  bearing  in  his  heart  the  secrets  of 
the  grave  33  33 

From  that  time  Turner  thought  of  Claude  Lorraine 
during  the  day  and  dreamed  of  him  at  night,  and  he 
stole  his  way  into  every  exhibition  where  a  Claude  was 
to  be  seen.  And  now  I  wish  that  Claude  Lorraine  was 
the  subject  of  this  sketch,  as  well  as  Turner,  for  his  life 
is  a  picture  full  of  sweetest  poetry,  framed  in  a  world  of 
dullest  prose. 
126 


J.    M.    W.    TURNER 


The  eyes  of  this  boy,  whom  they  had  thought  dreamy, 
dull  and  listless,  now  shone  with  a  different  light.  He 
thirsted  to  achieve,  to  do,  to  become — yes,  to  become 
a  greater  painter  than  Claude  Lorraine.  His  employer 
saw  the  change  and  smiled  at  it,  but  he  allowed  the  lad 
to  put  in  backgrounds  and  add  the  skies  to  cheap  prints, 
just  because  the  youngster  teased  to  do  it. 
Then  one  day  a  certain  patron  of  the  shop  came  and 
looked  over  the  shoulder  of  the  Turner  boy,  and  he  said, 
'*  He  has  skill — perhaps  talent." 

And  I  think  the  recording  angel  should  give  this  man  a 
separate  page  in  the  Book  of  Remembrance  and  write 
his  name  in  illuminated  colors,  for  he  gave  young 
Turner  access  to  his  own  collection  and  to  his  library, 
and  he  never  cuffed  him  nor  kicked  him  nor  called  him 
dunce — whereat  the  boy  was  much  surprised.  But  he 
encouraged  the  youth  to  sketch  a  picture  in  water- 
colors  and  then  he  bought  the  picture  and  paid  him  ten 
shillings  for  it;  and  the  name  of  this  man  was  Doctor 
Munro  53  3$ 

The  next  year,  when  young  Turner  was  fourteen,  Doctor 
Munro  had  him  admitted  to  the  Royal  Academy  as  a 
student,  and  in  Seventeen  Hundred  Ninety  he  exhibited 
a  water-color  of  the  Archbishop's  palace  at  Lambeth  53 
The  picture  took  no  prize,  and  doubtless  was  not  worthy 
of  one,  but  from  now  on  Joseph  M.  W.  Turner  was  an 
artist,  and  other  hands  had  to  sweep  the  barber-shop  53 
But  he  sold  few  pictures — they  were  not  popular.  Other 

127 


J.   M.   W.    TURNER 


artists  scorned  him,  possibly  intuitively  fearing  him,  for 
mediocrity  always  fears  when  the  ghost  of  genius  does 
not  down  at  its  bidding. 

Then  Turner  was  accounted  unsociable;  besides,  he  was 
ragged,  uncouth,  independent,  and  did  not  conform  to 
the  ways  of  society;  so  the  select  circle  cast  him  out — 
more  properly  speaking,  did  not  let  him  in. 
Still  he  worked  on,  and  exhibited  at  every  Academy 
Exhibition,  yet  he  was  often  hungry,  and  the  London 
fog  crept  cold  and  damp  through  his  threadbare  clothes. 
But  he  toiled  on,  for  Claude  Lorraine  was  ever  before 
him  53  55 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Two,  when  twenty-seven  years  of 
age,  he  visited  France  and  made  a  tour  through  Switzer- 
land, tramping  over  many  long  miles  with  his  painting- 
kit  on  his  back,  and  he  brought  back  rich  treasures  in 
way  of  sketches  and  quickened  imagination. 
In  the  years  following  he  took  many  such  trips,  and 
came  to  know  Venice,  Rome,  Florence  and  Paris  as 
perfectly  as  his  own  London. 

When  thirty-three  years  of  age  he  was  still  worshiping 
at  the  shrine  of  Claude  Lorraine.  His  pictures  painted 
at  this  time  are  evidence  of  his  ideal,  and  his  book, "  Liber 
Studiorum,"  issued  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Eight,  is 
modeled  after  the  "  Liber  Veritatis."  But  the  book  sur- 
passes Claude's,  and  Turner  knew  it,  and  this  may  have 
led  him  to  burst  his  shackles  and  cast  loose  from  his  idol. 
For,  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Fifteen,  we  find  him  working 
128 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


according  to  his  own  ideas,  showing  an  originality  and 
audacity  in  conception  and  execution  that  made  him  the 
butt  of  the  critics,  and  caused  consternation  to  rage 
through  the  studios  of  competitors. 
Gradually,  it  dawned  upon  a  few  scattered  collectors 
that  things  so  strongly  condemned  must  have  merit,  for 
why  should  the  pack  bay  so  loudly  if  there  were  no 
quarry !  So  to  have  a  Turner  was  at  least  something  for 
your  friends  to  discuss. 

Then  carriages  began  to  stop  before  the  dingy  building 
at  Forty-seven  Queen  Anne  Street,  and  broadcloth  and 
satin  mounted  the  creaking  stairs  to  the  studio.  It 
happened  about  this  time  that  Turner's  prices  began  to 
increase.  Like  the  sibyl  of  old,  if  a  customer  said,  I  do 
not  want  it,"  the  painter  put  an  extra  ten  pounds  on  the 
price.  For  "  Dido  Building  Carthage,"  Turner's  original 
price  was  five  hundred  pounds.  People  came  to  see  the 
picture  and  they  said,  "  The  price  is  too  high."  Next  day 
Turner's  price  for  the  "  Carthage"  was  one  thousand 
pounds.  Finally,  Sir  Robert  Peel  offered  the  painter  five 
thousand  pounds  for  the  picture,  but  Turner  said  he 
had  decided  to  keep  it  for  himself,  and  he  did. 
In  the  forepart  of  his  career  he  sold  few  pictures — for 
the  simple  reason  that  no  one  wanted  them.  And  he  sold 
few  pictures  during  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  for  the 
reason  that  his  prices  were  so  high  that  none  but  the 
very  rich  could  buy.  First,  the  public  scorned  Turner. 
Next,  Turner  scorned  the  public.  In  the  beginning  it 

129 


J.   M.   W.    TURNER 


would  not  buy  his  pictures,  and  later  it  could  not. 
fl  A  frivolous  public  and  a  shallow  press,  from  his  first 
exhibition,  when  fifteen  years  of  age,  to  his  last,  when 
seventy,  made  sport  of  his  originalities.  But  for  merit 
there  is  a  recompense  in  sneers,  and  a  benefit  in  sar- 
casms, and  a  compensation  in  hate;  for  when  these 
things  get  too  pronounced  a  champion  appears.  And  so 
it  was  with  Turner.  Next  to  having  a  Boswell  write  one's 
life,  what  is  better  than  a  Ruskin  to  uphold  one's  cause ! 
*I  Success  came  slowly;  his  wants  were  few,  but  his 
ambition  never  slackened,  and  finally  the  dreams  of  his 
youth  became  the  realities  of  his  manhood. 
At  twenty,  Turner  loved  a  beautiful  girl — they  became 
engaged.  He  went  away  on  a  tramp  sketching-tour  and 
wrote  his  ladylove  just  one  short  letter  each  month.  He 
believed  that  "  absence  only  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder,"  not  knowing  that  this  statement  is  only  the 
vagary  of  a  poet.  When  he  returned  the  lady  was  be- 
trothed to  another.  He  gave  the  pair  his  blessing,  and 
remained  a  bachelor — a  very  confirmed  bachelor. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  reason  his  fiancee  proved  untrue 
was  not  through  lack  of  the  epistles  he  wrote  her,  but  on 
account  of  them.  In  the  British  Museum  I  examined 
several  letters  written  by  Turner.  They  appeared  very 
much  like  copy  for  a  Josh  Billings  Almanac.  Such 
originality  in  spelling,  punctuation  and  use  of  capitals! 
It  was  admirable  in  its  uniqueness.  Turner  did  not  think 
in  words — he  could  only  think  in  paint.  But  the  young 
130 


J.    M.    W.    TURNER 


lady  did  not  know  this,  and  when  a  letter  came  from  her 
homely  little  lover  she  was  shocked,  then  she  laughed, 
then  she  showed  these  letters  to  a  nice  young  man  who 
was  clerk  to  a  fishmonger  and  he  laughed,  then  they 
both  laughed.  Then  this  nice  young  man  and  this 
beautiful  young  lady  became  engaged,  and  they  were 
married  at  Saint  Andrew's  on  a  lovely  May  morning. 
And  they  lived  happily  ever  afterward. 
Turner  was  small,  and  in  appearance  plain.  Yet  he  was 
big  enough  to  paint  a  big  picture,  and  he  was  not  so 
homely  as  to  frighten  away  all  beautiful  women.  But 
Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  tells  us,  "  Fortunate  in  many 
things,  Turner  was  lamentably  unfortunate  in  this: 
that  throughout  his  whole  life  he  never  came  under  the 
ennobling  and  refining  influence  of  a  good  woman."  33 
Like  Plato,  Michelangelo,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and  his  own 
Claude  Lorraine,  he  was  wedded  to  his  art.  But  at 
sixty-five  his  genius  suddenly  burst  forth  afresh,  and  his 
work,  Mr.  Ruskin  says,  at  that  time  exceeded  in  daring 
brilliancy  and  in  the  rich  flowering  of  imagination,  any- 
thing that  he  had  previously  done.  Mr.  Ruskin  could 
give  no  reason,  but  rumor  says,  "  A  woman." 
The  one  weakness  of  our  hero,  that  hung  to  him  for  life, 
was  the  idea  that  he  could  write  poetry.  The  tragedian 
always  thinks  he  can  succeed  in  comedy;  the  comedian 
spends  hours  in  his  garret  rehearsing  tragedy;  most 
preachers  have  an  idea  that  they  could  have  made  a 
quick  fortune  in  business,  and  many  businessmen  are 

131 


J.    M.    W.    TURNER 


very  sure  that  if  they  had  taken  to  the  pulpit  there 
would  now  be  fewer  empty  pews.  So  the  greatest  land- 
scape-painter of  recent  times  imagined  himself  a  poet. 
Hamerton  says  that  for  remarkable  specimens  of 
grammar,  spelling  and  construction  Turner's  verse 
•would  serve  well  to  be  given  to  little  boys  to  correct  33 
One  spot  in  Turner's  life  over  which  I  like  to  linger  is  his 
friendship  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  They  collaborated  in 
the  production  of  "  Provincial  Antiquities,"  and  spent 
many  happy  hours  together  tramping  over  Scottish  moors 
and  mountains.  Sir  Walter  lived  out  his  days  in  happy 
ignorance  concerning  the  art  of  painting,  and  although 
lie  liked  the  society  of  Turner,  he  confessed  that  it  was 
•quite  beyond  his  ken  why  people  bought  his  pictures. 
"  And  as  for  your  books,"  said  Turner,  "  the  covers  of 
some  are  certainly  very  pretty." 

Yet  these  men  took  a  satisfaction  in  each  other's  society, 
such  as  brothers  might  enjoy,  but  without  either  man 
appreciating  the  greatness  of  the  other. 
Turner's  temperament  was  audacious,  self-centered, 
self-reliant,  eager  for  success  and  fame,  yet  at  the  same 
time  scorning  public  opinion — a  paradox  often  found  in 
the  artistic  mind  of  the  first  class;  silent  always — with  a 
bitter  silence,  disdaining  to  tell  his  meaning  when  the 
critics  could  not  perceive  it. 

He  was  above  all  things  always  the  artist,  never  the 
realist.  The  realist  pictures  the  things  he  sees;  the 
artist  expresses  that  which  he  feels.  Children,  and  all 
132 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


simple  folk  who  use  pen,  pencil  or  brush,  describe  the 
things  they  behold.  As  intellect  develops  and  goes  more 
in  partnership  with  hand,  imagination  soars,  and  things 
are  outlined  that  no  man  can  see  except  he  be  able  to 
perceive  the  invisible.  To  appreciate  a  work  of  art  you 
must  feel  as  the  artist  felt. 

Now,  it  is  very  plain  that  the  vast  majority  of  people 
are  not  capable  of  this  high  sense  of  sublimity  which  the 
creative  artist  feels;  and  therefore  they  do  not  under- 
stand, and  not  understanding,  they  wax  merry,  or 
cynical,  or  sarcastic,  or  wrathful,  or  envious;  or  they 
pass  by  unmoved.  And  I  maintain  that  those  who  pass 
by  unmoved  are  more  righteous  than  they  who  scoff  5$ 
If  I  should  attempt  to  explain  to  my  little  girl  the  awe 
I  feel  when  I  contemplate  the  miracle  of  maternity,  she 
would  probably  change  the  subject  by  prattling  to  me 
about  a  kitten  she  saw  lapping  milk  from  a  blue  saucer. 
If  I  should  attempt  to  explain  to  some  men  what  I  feel 
when  I  contemplate  the  miracle  of  maternity,  they 
would  smile  and  turn  it  all  into  an  unspeakable  jest. 
Is  not  the  child  nearer  to  God  than  the  man? 
We  thus  see  why  to  many  Browning  is  only  a  joke,. 
Whitman  an  eccentric,  Dante  insane  and  Turner  a 
pretender.  These  have  all  sought  to  express  things  which 
the  many  can  not  feel,  and  consequently  they  have 
been,  and  are,  the  butt  of  jokes  and  jibes  innumerable.. 
"  Except  ye  become  as  little  children,"  etc. — and  yet 
the  scoffers  are  often  people  of  worth.  Nothing  so 

133 


J.   M.   W.    TURNER 


shows  the  limitation  of  humanity  as  this:  genius  often 
does  not  appreciate  genius.  The  inspired,  strangely 
enough,  are  like  the  fools,  they  do  not  recognize  inspi- 
ration 53  53 

An  Englishman  called  on  Voltaire  and  found  him  in 
bed  reading  Shakespeare. 

'  What  are  you  reading?  "  asked  the  visitor. 

'  Your  Shakespeare!  "  said  the  philosopher;  and  as  he 
answered  he  flung  the  book  across  the  room. 
"  He  's  not  my  Shakespeare,"  said  the  Englishman  53 
Greene,    Rymer,    Dryden,    Warburton    and    Doctor 
Johnson  used  collectively  or  individually  the  following 
expressions  in  describing  the  work  of  the  author  of 
Hamlet ' ' :  conceit,  overreach,  word-play,  extravagance, 
overdone,    absurdity,    obscurity,    puerility,    bombast, 
idiocy,  untruth,  improbability,  drivel. 
Byron  wrote  from  Florence  to  Murray: 
"  I  know  nothing  of  painting,  and  I  abhor  and  spit  upon 
all  saints  and  so-called  spiritual  subjects  that   I   see 
portrayed  in  these  churches.'* 

But  the  past  is  so  crowded  with  vituperation  that  it  is 
difficult  to  select — besides  that,  we  do  not  wish  to — but 
let  us  take  a  sample  of  arrogance  from  yesterday  to 
prove  our  point,  and  then  drop  the  theme  for  something 
pleasanter. 

Pew  and  pulpit  have  fallen  over  each  other  for  the 
privilege  of  hitting  Darwin ;  a  Bishop  warns  his  congre- 
gation that  Emerson  is  "  dangerous  ";  Spurgeon  calls 
134 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


Shelley  a  sensualist ;  Doctor  Buckley  speaks  of  Susan  B. 
Anthony  as  the  leader  of  "  the  short-haired  ";  Talmage 
cracks  jokes  about  evolution,  referring  feelingly  to 
"  monkey  ancestry  ";  and  a  prominent  divine  of  Eng- 
land writes  the  World's  Congress  of  Religions  down  as 
"  pious  waxworks."  These  things  being  true,  and  all  the 
sentiments  quoted  coming  from  "  good  "  but  blindly 
zealous  men,  is  it  a  wonder  that  the  Artist  is  not  under- 
stood? 53  53 

A  brilliant  picture,  called  "  Cologne — Evening,  "attracted 
much  attention  at  the  Academy  Exhibition  of  Eighteen 
Hundred  Twenty-six.  One  day  the  people  who  so  often 
collected  around  Turner's  work  were  shocked  to  see 
that  the  beautiful  canvas  had  lost  its  brilliancy,  and 
evidently  had  been  tampered  with  by  some  miscreant. 
A  friend  ran  to  inform  Turner  of  the  bad  news.  "  Don't 
say  anything.  I  only  smirched  it  with  lampblack.  It  was 
spoiling  the  effect  of  Laurence's  picture  that  hung  next 
to  it.  The  black  will  all  wash  off  after  the  Exhibition."  53 
And  his  tender  treatment  of  his  aged  father  shows  the 
gentle  side  of  his  nature.  The  old  barber,  whose  trem- 
bling hand  could  no  longer  hold  a  razor,  wished  to  remain 
under  his  son's  roof  in  guise  of  a  servant;  but  the  son 
said,  "  No;  we  fought  the  world  together,  and  now  that 
it  seeks  to  do  me  honor,  you  shall  share  all  the  benefits." 
And  Turner  never  smiled  when  the  little,  wizened,  old 
man  would  whisper  to  some  visitor,  "  Yes,  yes;  Joseph 
is  the  greatest  artist  in  England,  and  I  am  his  father." 

135 


J.   M.   W.   TURNER 


Turner  had  a  way  of  sending  ten-pound  notes  in  blank 
envelopes  to  artists  in  distress,  and  he  did  this  so 
frequently  that  the  news  got  out  finally,  but  never 
through  Turner's  telling,  and  then  he  had  to  adopt  other 
methods  of  doing  good  by  stealth. 

I  do  not  contend  that  Turner's  character  was  immacu- 
late, but  still  it  is  very  probable  that  worldlings  do  not 
appreciate  what  a  small  part  of  this  great  genius  touched 
the  mire  33  53 

To  prove  the  sordidness  of  the  man,  one  critic  tells,  with 
visage  awfully  solemn,  how  Turner  once  gave  an 
engraving  to  a  friend  and  then,  after  a  year,  sent 
demanding  it  back.  But  to  a  person  with  a  groat's 
worth  of  wit  the  matter  is  plain :  the  dreamy,  abstracted 
artist,  who  bumped  into  his  next-door  neighbors  on  the 
street  and  never  knew  them,  forgot  he  had  given  the 
picture  and  believed  he  had  only  loaned  it.  This  is  made 
still  more  apparent  by  the  fact  that,  when  he  sent  for 
the  engraving  in  question,  he  administered  a  rebuke  to 
the  man  for  keeping  it  so  long.  The  poor  dullard  who 
received  the  note  flew  into  a  rage — returned  the  picture 
— sent  his  compliments  and  begged  the  great  artist  to 
"  take  your  picture  and  go  to  the  devil." 
Then  certain  scribblers,  who  through  mental  disease 
had  lost  the  capacity  for  mirth,  dipped  their  pen  in 
aqua  fortis  and  wrote  of  the  "  innate  meanness,"  the 
"  malice  prepense  "  and  the  "  Old  Adam  "  which  dwelt 
in  the  heart  of  Turner.  No  one  laughed  except  a  few 
136 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


Irishmen,  and  an  American  or  two,  who  chanced  to  hear 
of  the  story. 

Of  Turner's  many  pictures  I  will  mention  in  detail  but 
two,  both  of  which  are  to  be  seen  on  the  walls  of  the 
National  Gallery.  First,  "The  Old  Temeraire."  This  war- 
ship had  been  sold  out  of  service  and  was  being  towed 
away  to  be  broken  up.  The  scene  was  photographed  on 
Turner's  brain,  and  he  immortalized  it  on  canvas.  We 
can  not  do  better  than  borrow  the  words  of  Mr.  Ruskin : 
<I "  Of  all  pictures  not  visibly  involving  human  pain, 
this  is  the  most  pathetic  ever  painted. 
'  The  utmost  pensiveness  which  can  ordinarily  be  given 
to  a  landscape  depends  on  adjuncts  of  ruin,  but  no  ruin 
was  ever  so  affecting  as  the  gliding  of  this  ship  to  her 
grave.  This  particular  ship,  crowned  in  the  Trafalgar 
hour  of  trial  with  chief  victory — surely,  if  ever  anything 
without  a  soul  deserved  honor  or  affection  we  owe  them 
here.  Surely,  some  sacred  care  might  have  been  left  in 
our  thoughts  for  her ;  some  quiet  space  amid  the  lapse  of 
English  waters!  Nay,  not  so.  We  have  stern  keepers  to 
trust  her  glory  to — the  fire  and  the  worm.  Nevermore 
shall  sunset  lay  golden  robe  upon  her,  nor  starlight 
tremble  on  the  waves  that  part  at  her  gliding.  Perhaps 
where  the  low  gate  opens  to  some  cottage  garden,  the 
tired  traveler  may  ask,  idly,  why  the  moss  grows  so 
green  on  the  rugged  wood;  and  even  the  sailor's  child 
may  not  know  that  the  night  dew  lies  deep  in  the  war- 
rents  of  the  old  Temeraire." 

137 


J.    M.    W.    TURNER 


*  The  Burial  of  Sir  David  Wilkie  at  Sea  "  has  brought 
tears  to  many  eyes.  Yet  there  is  no  burial.  The  ship  is  far 
away  in  the  gloom  of  the  offing ;  you  can  not  distinguish 
a  single  figure  on  her  decks;  but  you  behold  her  great 
sails  standing  out  against  the  leaden  blackness  of  the 
night  and  you  feel  that  out  there  a  certain  scene  is  being 
enacted.  And  if  you  listen  closely  you  can  hear  the 
solemn  voice  of  the  captain  as  he  reads  the  burial  service. 
Then  there  is  a  pause — a  swift,  sliding  sound — a  splash, 
and  all  is  over. 

Turner  left  to  the  British  Nation  by  his  will  nineteen 
thousand  pencil  and  water-color  sketches  and  one 
hundred  large  canvases.  These  pictures  are  now  to  be 
seen  in  the  National  Gallery  in  rooms  set  apart  and 
sacred  to  Turner's  work.  For  fear  it  may  be  thought 
that  the  number  of  sketches  mentioned  above  is  a  mis- 
print, let  us  say  that  if  he  had  produced  one  picture  a 
day  for  fifty  years  it  would  not  equal  the  number  of 
pieces  bestowed  by  his  will  on  the  Nation. 
This  of  course  takes  no  account  of  the  pictures  sold 
during  his  lifetime,  and,  as  he  left  a  fortune  of  one 
hundred  forty-four  thousand  pounds  (seven  hundred 
twenty  thousand  dollars),  we  may  infer  that  not  all  his 
pictures  were  given  away. 

At  Chelsea  I  stood  in  the  little  room  where  he  breathed 
his  last,  that  bleak  day  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Fifty-one. 
The  unlettered  but  motherly  old  woman  who  took  care 
of  him  in  those  last  days  never  guessed  his  greatness; 
138 


J.    M.    W.    TURNER 


none  in  the  house  or  the  neighborhood  knew.  *jf  To  them 
he  was  only  Mr.  Booth,  an  eccentric  old  man  of  moder- 
ate means,  who  liked  to  muse,  read,  and  play  with 
children.  He  had  no  callers,  no  friends;  he  went  to  the 
city  every  day  and  came  back  at  night.  He  talked  but 
little,  he  was  absent-minded,  he  smoked  and  thought 
and  smiled  and  muttered  to  himself.  He  never  went  to 
church ;  but  once  one  of  the  lodgers  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  God. 

"  God,  God — what  do  I  know  of  God,  what  does  any 
one!  He  is  our  life — He  is  the  All,  but  we  need  not  fear 
Him — all  we  can  do  is  to  speak  the  truth  and  do  our 
work.  Tomorrow  we  go — where?  I  know  not,  but  I  am 
not  afraid." 

Of  art,  to  these  strangers  he  would  never  speak.  Once 
they  urged  him  to  go  with  them  to  an  exhibition  at 
Kensington,  but  he  smiled  feebly  as  he  lit  his  pipe  and 
said,  "  An  Art  Exhibition?  No,  no;  a  man  can  show  on 
a  canvas  so  little  of  what  he  feels,  it  is  not  worth  the 
while."  33  33 

At  last  he  died — passed  peacefully  away — and  his 
attorney  came  and  took  charge  of  his  remains. 
Many  are  the  hard  words  that  have  been  flung  off  by 
heedless  tongues  about  Turner's  taking  an  assumed 
name  and  living  in  obscurity,  but  "  what  you  call  fault 
I  call  accent."  Surely,  if  a  great  man  and  world-famous 
desires  to  escape  the  flatterers  and  the  silken  mesh  of 
so-called  society  and  live  the  life  of  simplicity,  he  has  a 

139 


J.    M.   W.    TURNER 


right  to  do  so.  Again,  Turner  was  a  very  rich  man  in  his 
old  age;  he  did  much  for  struggling  artists  and  assisted 
aspiring  merit  in  many  ways.  So  it  came  about  that  his 
mail  was  burdened  with  begging  letters,  and  his  life 
made  miserable  by  appeals  from  impecunious  persons, 
good  and  bad,  and  from  churches,  societies  and  associa- 
tions without  number.  He  decided  to  flee  them  all ;  and 
he  did  3$  & 

The  "  Carthage  "  already  mentioned  is  one  of  his  finest 
works,  and  he  esteemed  it  so  highly  that  he  requested 
that  when  death  came,  his  body  should  be  buried, 
wrapped  in  its  magnificent  folds.  But  the  wish  was  dis- 
regarded 33  52 

His  remains  rest  in  the  crypt  of  Saint  Paul's,  beside  the 
dust  of  Reynolds.  His  statue,  in  marble,  adorns  a  niche 
in  the  great  cathedral,  and  his  name  is  secure  high  on  the 
roll  of  honor. 

And  if  for  no  other  reason,  the  name  and  fame  of 
Chelsea  should  be  deathless  as  the  home  of  Turner  33 


140 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


They  are  but  few  and  meanspirited  that  live  in  peace 

with  all  men. 

— Tale  of  a  Tub 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


IRRELL,  the  great  English  essayist, 
remarks  that,  "  Of  writing  books 
about  Dean  Swift  there  is  no  end." 
The  reason  is  plain:  of  no  other 
prominent  writer  who  has  lived 
during  the  past  two  hundred  years 
do  we  know  so  much.  His  life  lies 
open  to  us  in  many  books.  Boswell 
did  not  write  his  biography,  but  Johnson  did.  Then 
followed  whole  schools  of  little  fishes,  some  of  whom 
wrote  like  whales.  But  among  the  works  of  genuine 
worth  and  merit,  with  Swift  for  a  subject,  we  have 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  nineteen  volumes,  and  lives  by 
Craik,  Mitford,  Forster,  Collins  and  Leslie  Stephen  33 
The  positive  elements  in  Swift's  character  make  him  a 
most  interesting  subject  to  men  and  women  who  are 
yet  on  earth,  for  he  was  essentially  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
And  until  we  are  shown  that  the  earth  is  wholly  bad, 
we  shall  find  much  to  amuse,  much  to  instruct,  much  to 
admire — aye,  much  to  pity — in  the  life  of  Jonathan 
Swift  33  33 

His  father  married  at  twenty.  His  income  matched  his 
years — it  was  just  twenty  pounds  per  annum.  His  wife 
was  a  young  girl,  bright,  animated,  intelligent. 
In  a  few  short  months  this  girl  carried  in  her  arms  a 
baby.  This  baby  was  wrapped  in  a  tattered  shawl  and 

143 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


cried  piteously  from  hunger,  for  the  mother  had  not 
enough  to  eat.  She  was  cold,  and  sick,  and  in  disgrace. 
Her  husband,  too,  was  ill,  and  sorely  in  debt.  It  was 
Midwinter  33  33 

When  Spring  came,  and  the  flowers  blossomed,  and  the 
birds  mated,  and  warm  breezes  came  whispering  softly 
from  the  South,  and  all  the  earth  was  glad,  the  husband 
of  this  child-wife  was  in  his  grave,  and  she  was  alone. 
Alone?  No;  she  carried  in  her  tired  arms  the  hungry 
babe,  and  beneath  her  heart  she  felt  the  faint  flutter  of 
another  life. 

But  to  be  in  trouble  and  in  Ireland  is  not  so  bad  after 
all,  for  the  Irish  people  have  great  and  tender  hearts; 
and  even  if  they  have  not  much  to  bestow  in  a  material 
way,  they  can  give  sympathy,  and  they  do. 
So  the  girl  was  cared  for  by  kind  kindred,  and  on 
November  Thirtieth,  Sixteen  Hundred  Sixty-seven,  at 
Number  Seven,  Hoey's  Court,  Dublin,  the  second  baby 
was  born  33  33 

Only  a  little  way  from  Hoey's  Court  is  Saint  Patrick's 
Cathedral.  On  that  November  day,  as  the  tones  from 
the  clanging  chimes  fell  on  the  weary  senses  of  the  young 
mother,  there  in  her  darkened  room,  little  did  she  think 
that  the  puny  bantling  she  held  to  her  breast  would  yet 
be  the  Dean  of  the  great  church  whose  bells  she  heard ; 
and  how  could  she  anticipate  a  whisper  coming  to  her 
from  the  far-off  future:  "  Of  writing  books  about  your 
babe  there  is  no  end!  " 
144 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


HE  man-child  was  given  to  an  old  woman  to 
care  for,  and  he  had  the  ability,  even  then, 
it  seems,  to  win  affection.  The  foster-mother 
loved  him  and  she  stole  him  away,  carrying 
him  off  to  England. 

Charity  ministered  to  his  needs;  charity  gave  him  his 
education.  When  Swift  was  twenty-one  years  old  he 
went  to  see  his  mother.  Her  means  were  scanty  to  the 
point  of  hardship,  but  so  buoyant  was  her  mind  that  she 
used  to  declare  that  she  was  both  rich  and  happy — and 
being  happy  she  was  certainly  rich.  She  was  a  rare 
woman.  Her  spirit  was  independent,  her  mind  culti- 
vated, her  manner  gentle  and  refined,  and  she  was 
endowed  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor. 
From  her,  the  son  derived  those  qualities  which  have 
made  him  famous.  No  man  is  greater  than  his  mother; 
but  the  sons  of  brave  women  do  not  always  make  brave 
men.  In  one  quality  Swift  was  lamentably  inferior  to  his 
mother — he  did  not  have  her  capacity  for  happiness. 
He  had  wit;  she  had  humor. 

We  have  seen  how  Swift's  father  sickened  and  died.  The 
world  was  too  severe  for  him,  its  buffets  too  abrupt,  its 
burden  too  heavy,  and  he  gave  up  the  fight  before  the 
battle  had  really  begun.  This  lack  of  courage  and 
extreme  sensitiveness  are  seen  in  the  son.  But  so  peculiar, 
complex  and  wonderful  is  this  web  of  life,  that  our  very 
blunders,  weaknesses  and  mistakes  are  woven  in  and 
make  the  fabric  stronger.  If  Swift  had  possessed  only 

145 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


his  mother's  merits,  without  his  father's  faults,  he 
would  never  have  shaken  the  world  with  laughter,  and 
we  should  never  have  heard  of  him. 
In  her  lowliness  and  simplicity  the  mother  of  Swift  was 
content.  She  did  her  work  in  her  own  little  way.  She 
smiled  at  folly,  and  each  day  she  thanked  Heaven  that 
her  lot  was  no  worse.  Not  so  her  son.  He  brooded  in 
sullen  silence ;  he  cursed  Fate  for  making  him  a  depend- 
ent, and  even  in  his  youth  he  scorned  those  who  bene- 
fited him.  This  was  a  very  human  proceeding. 
Many  hate,  but  few  have  a  fine  capacity  for  scorn.  Their 
hate  is  so  vehement  that  when  hurled  it  falls  short. 
Swift's  scorn  was  a  beautifully  winged  arrow,  with  a 
poisoned  tip.  Some  who  were  struck  did  not  at  the  time 
know  it  53  53 

His  misanthropy  defeated  his  purpose,  thwarted  his 
ambition,  ruined  his  aims,  and — made  his  name 
illustrious  53  53 

Swift  wished  for  churchly  preferment,  but  he  had  not 
the  patience  to  wait.  He  imagined  that  others  were 
standing  in  his  way,  and  of  course  they  were;  for  under 
the  calm  exterior  of  things  ecclesiastic,  there  is  often  a 
strife,  a  jealousy  and  a  competition  more  rabid  than  in 
commerce.  To  succeed  in  winning  a  bishopric  requires 
a  sagacity  as  keen  as  that  required  to  become  a  Senator 
of  Massachusetts  or  the  Governor  of  New  York.  The 
man  bides  his  time,  makes  himself  popular,  secures 
advocates,  lubricates  the  way,  pulls  the  wires,  and 
146 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


slides  noiselessly  into  place.  *I  Swift  lacked  diplomacy. 
When  matters  did  not  seem  to  progress  he  grew  wrath- 
ful, seized  his  pen  and  stabbed  with  it.  But  as  he  wrote, 
the  ludicrousness  of  the  whole  situation  came  over  him 
and,  instead  of  cursing  plain  curses,  he  held  his  adver- 
sary up  to  ridicule!  And  this  ridicule  is  so  active,  the 
scorn  so  mixed  with  wit,  the  shafts  so  finely  feathered 
with  truth,  that  it  is  the  admiration  of  mankind.  Vitriol 
mixed  with  ink  is  volatile.  Then  what?  We  just  run 
Swift  through  a  coarse  sieve  to  take  out  the  lumps  of 
Seventeenth  Century  refuse,  and  then  we  give  him  to 
children  to  make  them  laugh.  Surely  no  better  use  can 
be  made  of  pessimists.  Verily,  the  author  of  Gulliver 
wrote  for  one  purpose,  and  we  use  his  work  for  another. 
He  wished  for  office,  he  got  contempt;  he  tried  to  subdue 
his  enemies,  they  subdued  him;  he  worked  for  the 
present,  and  he  won  immortality. 

Said  Heinrich  Heine,  prone  on  his  bed  in  Paris:  "  The 
wittiest  sarcasms  of  mortals  are  only  an  attempt  at 
jesting  when  compared  with  those  of  the  great  Author 
of  the  Universe — the  Aristophanes  of  Heaven!  " 
Wise  men  over  and  over  have  wasted  good  ink  and 
paper  in  bewailing  Swift's  malice  and  coarseness.  But 
without  these  very  elements  which  the  wise  men  be- 
moan, Swift  would  be  for  us  a  cipher.  Yet  love  is  life 
and  hate  is  death,  so  how  can  spite  benefit  ?  The  answer 
is  that,  in  certain  forms  of  germination,  frost  is  as 
necessary  as  sunshine:  so  some  men  have  qualities  that 

147 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


lie  dormant  until  the  coldness  of  hate  bursts  the  coarse 
husk  of  indifference. 

fiut  while  hate  may  animate,  only  love  inspires.  Swift 
might  have  stood  at  the  head  of  the  Church  of  England ; 
but  even  so,  he  would  be  only  a  unit  in  a  long  list  of 
names,  and  as  it  is,  there  is  only  one  Swift.  Mr.  Talmage 
averred  that  not  ten  men  in  America  knew  the  name  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  until  his  son  wrote  a 
certain  book  en  titled"  Dodo."  In  putting  out  this  volume, 
young  Benson  not  only  gave  us  the  strongest  possible 
argument  favoring  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy,  but  at  the 
same  time,  if  Talmage's  statement  is  correct,  he  made 
known  his  father's  name. 

In  all  Swift's  work,  save  "  The  Journal  to  Stella,"  the 
animating  motive  seems  to  have  been  to  confound  his 
enemies;  and  according  to  the  well-known  line  in  that 
tymn  sung  wherever  the  Union  Jack  flies,  we  must 
believe  this  to  be  a  perfectly  justifiable  ambition.  But 
occasionally  on  his  pages  we  find  gentle  words  of  wisdom 
that  were  meant  evidently  for  love's  eyes  alone.  There 
is  much  that  is  pure  boyish  frolic,  and  again  and  again 
there  are  clever  strokes  directed  at  folly.  He  has  shot 
certain  superstitions  through  with  doubt,  and  in  his 
manner  of  dealing  with  error  he  has  proved  to  us  a  thing 
It  were  well  not  to  forget:  that  pleasantry  is  more 
efficacious  than  vehemence. 

Let  me  name  one  incident  by  way  of  proof — the  well- 
Jknown    one   of   Partridge,    the   almanac-maker.   This 
148 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


worthy  cobbler  was  an  astrologer  of  no  mean  repute,. 
He  foretold  events  with  much  discretion.  The  ignorant 
bought  his  almanacs,  and  many  believed  in  them  as  a 
Bible — in  fact,  astrology  was  enjoying  a  "  boom."  3$ 
Swift  came  to  London  and  found  that  Partridge's  pre- 
dictions were  the  theme  at  the  coffeehouses.  He  saw 
men  argue  and  wax  wroth,  grow  red  in  the  face  as  they 
talked  loud  and  long  about  nothing — just  nothing.  The 
whole  thing  struck  Swift  as  being  very  funny;  and  he 
wrote  an  announcement  of  his  intention  to  publish  a. 
rival  almanac.  He  explained  that  he,  too,  was  an 
astrologer,  but  an  honest  one,  while  Partridge  was  an 
impostor  and  a  cheat;  in  fact,  Partridge  foretold  only 
things  which  every  one  knew  would  come  true.  As  for 
himself,  he  could  discern  the  future  with  absolute 
certainty,  and  to  prove  to  the  world  his  power  he  would 
now  make  a  prophecy.  In  substance,  it  was  as  follows r 
"  My  first  prediction  is  but  a  trifle;  it  relates  to  Par- 
tridge, the  almanac-maker.  I  have  consulted  the  star  of 
his  nativity,  and  find  that  he  will  die  on  the  Twenty- 
ninth  day  of  March,  next."  This  was  signed,  "  Isaac 
Bickerstaff,"  and  duly  issued  in  pamphlet  form.  It  had 
such  an  air  of  sincerity  that  both  the  believers  and  the 
scoffers  read  it  with  interest. 

The  Thirtieth  of  March  came,  and  another  pamphlet 
from  "  Isaac  Bickerstaff  "  appeared,  announcing  the 
fulfilment  of  the  prophecy.  It  related  how  toward  the 
end  of  March  Partridge  began  to  languish ;  how  he  grew 

149 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


ill  and  at  last  took  to  his  bed,  and,  his  conscience  then 
smiting  him,  he  confessed  to  the  world  that  he  was  a 
fraud  and  a  rogue,  that  all  his  prophecies  were  imposi- 
tions; he  then  passed  away. 

Partridge  was  wild  with  rage,  and  immediately  replied 
in  a  manifesto  declaring  that  he  was  alive  and  well,  and 
moreover  was  alive  on  March  Twenty-ninth. 
To  this  "  Bickerstaff '"  replied  in  a  pamphlet  more 
seriously  humorous  than  ever,  reaffirming  that  Par- 
tridge was  dead,  and  closing  with  the  statement  that, 
"If  an  uninformed  carcass  still  walks  about  calling 
itself  Partridge,  I  do  not  in  any  way  consider  myself 
responsible  for  that." 

The  joke  set  all  London  on  a  grin.  Wherever  Partridge 
went  he  was  met  with  smiles  and  jeers,  and  astrology 
became  only  a  jest  to  a  vast  number  of  people  who  had 
formerly  believed  in  it  seriously. 

When  Benjamin  Franklin  started  his  "  Poor  Richard's 
Almanac,"  twenty-five  years  later,  in  the  first  issue  he 
prophesied  the  death  of  one  Dart  who  set  the  pace  at 
that  time  as  almanac-maker  in  America.  The  man  was 
to  expire  on  the  afternoon  of  October  Seventeenth, 
Seventeen  Hundred  Thirty-eight,  at  three  twenty-nine 
o'clock  53  53 

Dart,  being  somewhat  of  a  joker  himself,  came  out  with 
an  announcement  that  he,  too,  had  consulted  the  oracle, 
and  found  he  would  live  until  October  Twenty-sixth, 
and  possibly  longer. 
150 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


On  October  Eighteenth,  Franklin  announced  Dart's 
death,  and  explained  that  it  occurred  promptly  on  time, 
all  as  prophesied. 

Yet  Dart  lived  to  publish  many  almanacs;  but  Poor 
Richard  got  his  advertisement,  and  many  staid,  broad- 
brimmed  Philadelphians  smiled  who  had  never  smiled 
before — not  only  smiled  but  subscribed. 
Benjamin  Franklin  was  a  great  and  good  man,  as  any 
man  must  be  who  fathers  another's  jokes,  introducing 
these  orphaned  children  to  the  world  as  his  own. 
Perhaps  no  one  who  has  written  of  Swift  knew  him  so 
well  as  Delany.  And  this  writer,  who  seems  to  have 
possessed  a  judicial  quality  far  beyond  most  men,  has 
told  us  that  Swift  was  moral  in  conduct  to  the  point  of 
asceticism.  His  deportment  was  grave  and  dignified,  and 
his  duties  as  a  priest  were  always  performed  with 
exemplary  diligence.  He  visited  the  sick,  regularly 
administered  the  sacraments,  and  was  never  known  to 
absent  himself  from  morning  prayers. 
When  Harley  was  Lord  Treasurer,  Swift  seems  to  have 
been  on  the  topmost  crest  of  the  wave  of  popularity. 
Invitations  from  nobility  flowed  in  upon  him,  beautiful 
women  deigned  to  go  in  search  of  his  society,  royalty 
recognized  him.  And  yet  all  this  time  he  was  only  a 
country  priest  with  a  liking  for  literature. 
Collins  tells  us  that  the  reason  for  his  popularity  is 
plain:  "  Swift  was  one  of  the  kings  of  the  earth.  Like 
Pope  Innocent  the  Third,  like  Chatham,  he  was  one 

151 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


to  whom  the  world  involuntarily  pays  tribute."  3& 
His  will  was  a  will  of  adamant ;  his  intellect  so  keen  that 
it  impressed  every  one  who  approached  him ;  his  temper 
singularly  stern,  dauntless  and  haughty.  But  his  wit  was 
never  filled  with  gaiety:  he  was  never  known  to  laugh. 
Amid  the  wildest  uproar  that  his  sallies  caused,  he 
would  sit  with  face  austere — unmoved. 
Personally,  Swift  was  a  gentleman.  When  he  was 
scurrilous,  abusive,  ribald,  malicious,  it  was  anony- 
mously. Is  this  to  his  credit?  I  should  not  say  so,  but  if 
a  man  is  indecent  and  he  hides  behind  a  "  nom deplume," 
it  is  at  least  presumptive  proof  that  he  is  not  dead  to 
shame  5&  53 

Leslie  Stephen  tells  us  that  Swift  was  a  Churchman  to 
the  backbone.  No  man  who  is  a  Churchman  to  the 
backbone  "  is  ever  very  pious:  the  spirit  maketh  alive, 
but  the  letter  killeth.  One  looks  in  vain  for  traces  of 
spirituality  in  the  Dean.  His  sermons  are  models  of 
churchly  commonplace  and  full  of  the  stock  phrases  of  a 
formal  religion.  He  never  bursts  into  flame.  Yet  he  most 
thoroughly  and  sincerely  believed  in  religion.  "  I  believe 
in  religion — it  keeps  the  masses  in  check.  And  then  I 
uphold  Christianity  because  if  it  is  abolished  the 
stability  of  the  Church  might  be  endangered,"  he  said. 
*J  Philip  asked  the  eunuch  a  needless  question  when  he 
inquired,  "  Understandest  thou  what  thou  readest?  " 
No  one  so  poorly  sexed  as  Swift  can  comprehend  spiritual 
truth:  spirituality  and  sexuality  are  elements  that  are 
152 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


never  separated.  Swift  was  as  incapable  of  spirituality 
as  he  was  of  the  "  grand  passion."  fj  The  Dean  had 
affection ;  he  was  a  warm  friend ;  he  was  capable  even  of 
a  degree  of  love,  but  his  sexual  and  spiritual  nature  was 
so  cold  and  calculating  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  love  to  churchly  ambition. 
He  argued  that  the  celibacy  of  the  Catholic  clergy  is  a 
wise  expediency.  The  bachelor  physician  and  the  un- 
married priest  have  an  influence  among  gentle  woman- 
kind, young  or  old,  married  or  single,  that  a  benedict 
can  never  hope  for.  Why  this  is  so  might  be  difficult  to 
explain,  but  discerning  men  know  the  fact.  In  truth, 
when  a  priest  marries  he  should  at  once  take  a  new 
charge,  for  if  he  remains  with  his  old  flock  a  goodly 
number  of  his  "  lady  parishioners,"  in  ages  varying 
from  seventeen  to  seventy,  will  with  fierce  indignation 
rend  his  reputation. 

Swift  was  as  wise  as  a  serpent,  but  not  always  as  harm- 
less as  a  dove.  He  was  making  every  effort  to  secure  his 
miter  and  crosier:  he  had  many  women  friends  in 
London  and  elsewhere  who  had  influence.  Rather  than 
run  the  risk  of  losing  this  influence  he  never  acknowl- 
edged Stella  as  his  wife.  Choosing  fame  rather  than  love, 
he  withered  at  the  heart,  then  died  at  the  top. 
The  life  of  every  man  is  a  seamless  garment — its  woof 
his  thoughts,  its  warp  his  deeds.  When  for  him  the  roar- 
ing loom  of  time  stops  and  the  thread  is  broken,  foolish 
people  sometimes  point  to  certain  spots  in  the  robe  and 

153 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


say,  "  Oh,  why  did  he  not  leave  that  out!  "  not  knowing 
that  every  action  of  man  is  a  sequence  from  off  Fate's 
spindle  5$  5$ 

Let  us  accept  the  work  of  genius  as  we  find  it;  not 
bemoaning  because  it  is  not  better,  but  giving  thanks 
because  it  is  so  good. 


154 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


WELL-FED,  rollicking  priest  is  Father 
O'Toole  of  Dublin,  with  a  big,  round  face, 
a  double  chin,  and  a  brogue  that  you  can 
cut  with  a  knife. 
My  letter  of  introduction  from  Monseigneur  Satolli 
caused  him  at  once  to  bring  in  a  large,  suspicious,  black 
bottle  and  two  glasses.  Then  we  talked — talked  of 
Ireland's  wrongs  and  woman's  rights,  and  of  all  the 
Irishmen  in  America  whom  I  was  supposed  to  know. 
We  spoke  of  the  illustrious  Irishmen  who  had  passed 
on,  and  I  mentioned  a  name  that  caused  the  holy  father 
to  spring  from  his  chair  in  indignation. 
"  Shwift  is  it!  Shwift!  No,  me  lad,  don't  go  near  him! 
He  was  the  divil's  own,  the  very  worsht  that  ever 
followed  the  swish  of  a  petticoat.  No,  no ;  if  ye  go  to  his 
grave  it  '11  bring  ye  bad  luck  for  a  year.  It 's  Tom  Moore 
ye  want — Tom  was  the  bye.  Arrah !  now,  and  it 's 
meself  phat  '11  go  wid  ye." 

And  so  the  reverend  father  put  on  a  long,  black  coat  and 
his  Saint  Patrick's  Day  hat,  and  we  started.  We  were 
met  at  the  gate  by  a  delegation  of  "  shpalpeens  "  that 
had  located  me  on  the  inside  of  the  house  and  were  lying 
in  wait  33  33 

All  American  travelers  in  Ireland  are  supposed  to  be 
millionaires,  and  this  may  possibly  explain  the  lavish 
attention  that  is  often  tendered  them.  At  any  rate, 
various  members  of  the  delegation  wished  "  long  life  to 
the  iligant  'merican  gintleman,"  and  hinted  in  terms 

155 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


unmistakable  that  pence  would  be  acceptable.  The  holy 
father  applied  his  cane  vigorously  to  the  ragged  rears  of 
the  more  presumptuous,  and  bade  them  begone,  but 
still  they  followed  and  pressed  close  about. 
"  Here,  I  '11  show  you  how  to  get  rid  of  the  dirty  gang," 
said  his  holiness.  "  Have  ye  a  penny,  I  don't  know?  " 
Ctt  I  produced  a  handful  of  small  change,  which  the 
father  immediately  took  and  tossed  into  the  street. 
Instantly  there  was  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  young 
Hibernians  piled  up  in  the  dirt  in  a  grand  struggle  for 
spoils.  It  reminded  me  of  football  incidents  I  had  seen 
at  fair  Harvard.  In  the  meantime,  we  escaped  down  a 
convenient  alley  and  crossed  the  River  Liffey  to  Old 
Dublin ;  inside  the  walls  of  the  old  city,  through  crooked 
lanes  and  winding  streets  that  here  and  there  showed 
signs  of  departed  gentility,  where  now  was  only  squalor, 
want  and  vice,  until  we  came  to  Number  Twelve  Angier 
Street,  a  quaint,  three-story  brick  building  now  used  as  a 
"  public."  In  the  wall  above  the  door  is  a  marble  slab 
with  this  inscription:  "  Here  was  born  Thomas  Moore, 
on  the  Twenty-eighth  day  of  May,  Seventeen  Hundred 
Seventy-eight."  Above  this  in  a  niche  is  a  bust  of  the 
poet  33  33 

Tom's  father  was  a  worthy  greengrocer  who,  according 
to  the  author  of  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  always  gave  good  mea- 
sure and  full  count.  It  was  ever  a  cause  of  regret  to  the 
elder  Moore  that  his  son  did  not  show  sufficient  capacity 
to  be  trusted  safely  with  the  business. 
156 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


The  upper  rooms  of  the  house  were  shown  to  us  by  an 
obliging  landlady.  Father  O'Toole  had  been  here  before, 
and  led  the  way  to  a  snug  little  chamber  and  explained 
that  in  this  room  the  future  poet  of  Ireland  was  found 
under  one  of  his  father's  cabbage-leaves. 
We  descended  to  the  neat  little  barroom  with  its  sanded 
floor  and  polished  glassware  and  shining  brass.  The 
holy  father  ordered  'arf-and-'arf  at  my  expense  and 
recited  one  of  Moore's  ballads.  The  landlady  then  gave 
us  Byron's  "  Here 's  a  Health  to  Thee,  Tom  Moore."  A 
neighbor  came  in.  Then  we  had  more  ballads,  more 
'arf-and-'arf,  a  selection  from  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  and  vari- 
ous tales  of  the  poet's  early  life,  which  possibly  would 
be  hard  to  verify. 

And  as  the  tumult  raged,  the  smoke  of  battle  gave  me 
opportunity  to  slip  away.  I  crossed  the  street,  turned 
down  one  block,  and  entered  Saint  Patrick's  Cathedral. 
*I  Great,  roomy,  gloomy,  solemn  temple,  where  the 
rumble  of  city  traffic  is  deadened  to  a  faint  hum: 

4  Without,  the  world's  unceasing  noises  rise, 
Turmoil,  disquietude  and  busy  fears; 
Within,  there  are  the  sounds  of  other  years, 
Thoughts  full  of  prayer  and  solemn  harmonies 
Which  imitate  on  earth  the  peaceful  skies." 

Other  worshipers  were  there.  Standing  beside  a  great 
stone  pillar  I  could  make  them  out  kneeling  on  the  tiled 
floor.  Gradually,  my  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 

157 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


subdued  light,  and  right  at  my  feet  I  saw  a  large  brass 
plate  set  in  the  floor  and  on  it  only  this: 

Swift 

Died  Oct.  19,  1745 
Aged  78 

On  the  wall  near  is  a  bronze  tablet,  the  inscription  of 
which,  in  Latin,  was  dictated  by  Swift  himself: 
"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Jonathan  Swift,  Dean  of  this 
Cathedral,  where  fierce  indignation  can  no  longer  rend 
his  heart.  Go!  wayfarer,  and  imitate,  if  thou  canst,  one 
who,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  was  an  earnest  champion  of 

liberty " 

Above  this  is  a  fine  bust  of  the  Dean,  and  to  the  right  is 
another  tablet: 

"  Underneath  lie  interred  the  mortal  remains  of  Mrs. 
Hester  Johnson,  better  known  to  the  world  as  '  Stella,' 
under  which  she  is  celebrated  in  the  writings  of  Doctor 
Jonathan  Swift,  Dean  of  this  Cathedral.  She  was  a 
person  of  extraordinary  endowments  and  accomplish- 
ments, in  body,  mind  and  behavior;  justly  admired  and 
respected  by  all  who  knew  her,  on  account  of  her  emi- 
nent virtues  as  well  as  for  her  great  natural  and  acquired 
perfections." 

These  were  suffering  souls  and  great.  Would  they  have 
been  so  great  had  they  not  suffered?  Who  can  tell? 
Were  the  waters  troubled  in  order  that  they  might  heal 
the  people? 
158 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


Did  Swift  misuse  this  excellent  woman,  is  a  question 
that  has  been  asked  and  answered  again  and  again. 
A  great  author  has  written: 

"  A  woman,  a  tender,  noble,  excellent  woman,  has  a 
dog's  heart.  She  licks  the  hand  that  strikes  her.  And 
wrong  nor  cruelty  nor  injustice  nor  disloyalty  can  cause 
her  to  turn." 

Death  in  pity  took  Stella  first;  took  her  in  the  loyalty  of 
love  and  the  fulness  of  faith  from  a  world  which  for  love 
has  little  recompense,  and  for  faith  small  fulfilment  33 
Stella  was  buried  by  torchlight,  at  midnight,  on  the 
Thirtieth  day  of  January,  Seventeen  Hundred  Twenty- 
eight.  Swift  was  sick  at  the  time,  and  wrote  in  his 
journal:  "  This  is  the  night  of  her  funeral,  and  I  am 
removed  to  another  apartment  that  I  may  not  see  the 
light  in  the  church  which  is  just  over  against  my 
window."  But  in  his  imagination  he  saw  the  gleaming 
torches  as  their  dull  light  shone  through  the  colored 
windows,  and  he  said,  "  They  will  soon  do  as  much  for 
me."  53  3S 

But  seventeen  years  came  crawling  by  before  the 
torches  flared,  smoked  and  gleamed  as  the  mourners 
chanted  a  requiem,  and  the  clods  fell  on  the  coffin,  and 
their  echoes  intermingled  with  the  solemn  voice  of  the 
priest  as  he  said,  "  Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes." 
In  Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-five,  the  graves  were 
opened  and  casts  taken  of  the  skulls.  The  top  of  Swift's 
skull  had  been  sawed  off  at  the  autopsy,  and  a  bottle  in 

159 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


which  was  a  parchment  setting  forth  the  facts  was 

inserted  in   the  head   that  had  conceived  "  Gulliver's 

Travels."  53  S& 

I  examined  the  casts.  The  woman's  head  is  square  and 

shapely.  Swift's  head  is  a  refutation  of  phrenology, 

being  small,  sloping  and  ordinary. 

The  bones  of  Swift  and  Stella  were  placed  in  one  coffin, 

and  now  rest  under  three  feet  of  concrete,  beneath  the 

floor  of  Saint  Patrick's. 

So  sleep  the  lovers  joined  in  death. 


160 


WALT  WHITMAN 


All  seems  beautiful  to  me. 

I  can  repeat  over  to  men  and  women,  You  have  done 

such  good  to  me  I  would  do  the  same  to  you, 
I  will  recruit  for  myself  and  you  as  I  go. 
I  will  scatter  myself  among  men  and  women  as  I  go, 
I  will  toss  a  new  gladness  and  roughness  among  them. 

— Song  of  the  Open  Road 


WALT   WHITMAN 


WALT  WHITMAN 


AX  NORDAU  wrote  a  book— wrote 
it  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  a 
dash  of  vitriol  in  the  ink,  and  with  a 
pen  that  scratched. 
And  the  first  critic  who  seemed  to 
place  a  just  estimate  on  the  work 
was  Mr.  Zangwill  (he  who  has  no 
Christian  name).  Mr.  Zangwill  made 
an  attempt  to  swear  out  a  "  writ  de  lunatico  inquirendo" 
against  his  Jewish  brother,  on  the  ground  that  the  first 
symptom  of  insanity  is  often  the  delusion  that  others 
are  insane;  and  this  being  so,  Doctor  Nordau  was  not  a 
safe  subject  to  be  at  large.  But  the  Assize  of  Public 
Opinion  denied  the  petition,  and  the  dear  people  bought 
the  book  at  from  three  to  five  dollars  a  copy.  Printed  in 
several  languages,  its  sales  have  mounted  to  a  hundred 
thousand  volumes,  and  the  author's  net  profit  is  full 
forty  thousand  dollars.  No  wonder  is  it  that,  with 
pockets  full  to  bursting,  Doctor  Nordau  goes  out  behind 
the  house  and  laughs  uproariously  whenever  he  thinks 
of  how  he  has  worked  the  world! 

If  Doctor  Talmage  is  the  Barnum  of  Theology,  surely 
we  may  call  Doctor  Nordau  the  Barnum  of  Science.  His 
agility  in  manipulating  facts  is  equal  to  Hermann's 
now-you-see-it  and  now-you-don't,  with  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs. Yet  Hermann's  exhibition  is  worth  the 

163 


WALT    WHITMAN 


admittance  fee,  and  Nordau's  book  (seemingly  written 
in  collaboration  with  Jules  Verne  and  Mark  Twain) 
would  be  cheap  for  a  dollar.  But  what  I  object  to  is 
Professor  Hermann's  disciples  posing  as  Sure-Enough 
Materializing  Mediums,  and  Professor  Lombroso's  fol- 
lowers calling  themselves  Scientists,  when  each  goes 
forth  without  scrip  or  purse  with  no  other  purpose 
than  to  supply  themselves  with  both. 
Yet  it  was  Barnum  himself  who  said  that  the  public 
delights  in  being  humbugged,  and  strange  it  is  that  we 
will  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  thimblerigged  without 
paying  for  the  privilege. 

Nordau's  success  hinged  on  his  audacious  assumption 
that  the  public  knew  nothing  of  the  Law  of  Antithesis. 
Yet  Plato  explained  that  the  opposites  of  things  look 
alike,  and  sometimes  are  alike — and  that  was  quite  a 
while  ago. 

The  multitude  answered,  "  Thou  hast  a  devil."  Many 
of  them  said,  "  He  hath  a  devil  and  is  mad."  Festus  said 
with  a  loud  voice,  "  Paul,  thou  art  beside  thyself."  And 
Nordau  shouts  in  a  voice  more  heady  than  that  of 
Pilate,  more  throaty  than  that  of  Festus,  "  Mad — 
Whitman  was — mad  beyond  the  cavil  of  a  doubt!  "  35 
In  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty- two,  Lincoln,  looking  out 
of  a  window  (before  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed) 
on  one  of  the  streets  of  Washington,  saw  a  workingman 
in  shirt-sleeves  go  by.  Turning  to  a  friend,  the  President 
said,  "  There  goes  a  MAN!  "  The  exclamation  sounds 
164 


WALT    WHITMAN 


singularly  like  that  of  Napoleon  on  meeting  Goethe. 
But  the  Corsican's  remark  was  intended  for  the  poet's 
ear,  while  Lincoln  did  not  know  who  his  man  was, 
although  he  came  to  know  him  afterward. 
Lincoln  in  his  early  days  was  a  workingman  and  an 
athlete,  and  he  never  quite  got  the  idea  out  of  his  head 
(and  I  am  glad)  that  he  was  still  a  hewer  of  wood.  He 
once  told  George  William  Curtis  that  he  more  than  half 
expected  yet  to  go  back  to  the  farm  and  earn  his  daily 
bread  by  the  work  that  his  hands  found  to  do;  he 
dreamed  of  it  nights,  and  whenever  he  saw  a  splendid 
toiler,  he  felt  like  hailing  the  man  as  brother  and  strik- 
ing hands  with  him.  When  Lincoln  saw  Whitman 
strolling  majestically  past,  he  took  him  for  a  stevedore 
or  possibly  the  foreman  of  a  construction  gang. 
Whitman  was  fifty-one  years  old  then.  His  long,  flowing 
beard  was  snow-white,  and  the  shock  that  covered  his 
Jove-like  head  was  iron-gray.  His  form  was  that  of  an 
Apollo  who  had  arrived  at  years  of  discretion.  He 
weighed  an  even  two  hundred  pounds  and  was  just  six 
feet  high.  His  plain,  check,  cotton  shirt  was  open  at  the 
throat  to  the  breast;  and  he  had  an  independence,  a 
self-sufficiency,  and  withal  a  cleanliness,  a  sweetness  and 
a  gentleness,  that  told  that,  although  he  had  a  giant's 
strength,  he  did  not  use  it  like  a  giant.  Whitman  used 
no  tobacco,  neither  did  he  apply  hot  and  rebellious 
liquors  to  his  blood  and  with  unblushing  forehead  woo 
the  means  of  debility  and  disease.  Up  to  his  fifty-third 

165 


WALT    WHITMAN 


year  he  had  never  known  a  sick  day,  although  at  thirty 
his  hair  had  begun  to  whiten.  He  had  the  look  of  age 
in  his  youth  and  the  look  of  youth  in  his  age  that  often 
marks  the  exceptional  man. 

But  at  fifty-three  his  splendid  health  was  crowded  to  the 
breaking  strain.  How?  Through  caring  for  wounded, 
sick  and  dying  men,  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day, 
through  the  long,  silent  watches  of  the  night.  From 
Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty-four  to  the  day  of  his  death  in 
Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-two,  he  was,  physically,  a 
man  in  ruins.  But  he  did  not  wither  at  the  top.  Through 
it  all  he  held  the  healthy  optimism  of  boyhood,  carrying 
with  him  the  perfume  of  the  morning  and  the  lavish 
heart  of  youth. 

Doctor  Bucke,  who  was  superintendent  of  a  hospital  for 
the  insane  for  fifteen  years,  and  the  intimate  friend  of 
Whitman  all  the  time,  has  said:  "  His  build,  his  stature, 
his  exceptional  health  of  mind  and  body,  the  size  and 
form  of  his  features,  his  cleanliness  of  mind  and  body, 
the  grace  of  his  movements  and  gestures,  the  grandeur, 
and  especially  the  magnetism,  of  his  presence ;  the  charm 
of  his  voice,  his  genial,  kindly  humor;  the  simplicity  of 
his  habits  and  tastes,  his  freedom  from  convention,  the 
largeness  and  the  beauty  of  his  manner;  his  calmness 
and  majesty;  his  charity  and  forbearance — his  entire 
unresentfulness  under  whatever  provocation;  his  liber- 
ality, his  universal  sympathy  with  humanity  in  all  ages 
and  lands,  his  broad  tolerance,  his  catholic  friendliness, 
166 


WALT    WHITMAN 


and  his  unexampled  faculty  of  attracting  affection,  all 
prove  his  perfectly  proportioned  manliness." 
But  Whitman  differed  from  the  disciple  of  Lombroso  in 
two  notable  particulars:  He  had  no  quarrel  with  the 
world,  and  he  did  not  wax  rich.  "  One  thing  thou 
lackest,  O  Walt  Whitman!  "  we  might  have  said  to  the 
poet;  "  you  are  not  a  financier."  He  died  poor.  But  this 
is  no  proof  of  degeneracy,  save  on  'Change.  When  the 
children  of  Count  Tolstoy  endeavored  to  have  him 
adjudged  insane,  the  Court  denied  the  application  and 
voiced  the  wisest  decision  that  ever  came  out  of  Russia : 
A  man  who  gives  away  his  money  is  not  necessarily 
more  foolish  than  he  who  saves  it. 
And  with  Horace  L.  Traubel  I  assert  that  Whitman  was 
the  sanest  man  I  ever  saw. 


167 


WALT    WHITMAN 


OME  men  make  themselves  homes ;  and  others 
there  be  who  rent  rooms.  Walt  Whitman  was 
essentially  a  citizen  of  the  world:  the  world 
was  his  home  and  mankind  were  his  friends. 
There  was  a  quality  in  the  man  peculiarly  universal :  a 
strong,  virile  poise  that  asked  for  nothing,  but  took 
what  it  needed. 

He  loved  men  as  brothers,  yet  his  brothers  after  the 
flesh  understood  him  not;  he  loved  children — they 
turned  to  him  instinctively — but  he  had  no  children  of 
his  own;  he  loved  women,  and  yet  this  strongly  sexed 
and  manly  man  never  loved  a  woman.  And  I  might  here 
say  as  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  said  of  Turner,  "  He 
was  lamentably  unfortunate  in  this:  throughout  his 
whole  life  he  never  came  under  the  ennobling  and 
refining  influence  of  a  good  woman." 
It  requires  two  to  make  a  home.  The  first  home  was 
made  when  a  woman,  cradling  in  her  loving  arms  a  baby, 
crooned  a  lullaby.  All  the  tender  sentimentality  we 
throw  around  a  place  is  the  result  of  the  sacred  thought 
that  we  live  there  with  some  one  else.  1 1  is  "  our  "  home. 
The  home  is  a  tryst — the  place  where  we  retire  and 
shut  the  world  out.  Lovers  make  a  home,  just  as  birds 
make  a  nest,  and  unless  a  man  knows  the  spell  of  the 
divine  passion  I  hardly  see  how  he  can  have  a  home  at 
all.  He  only  rents  a  room. 

Camden  is  separated  from  the  city  of  Philadelphia  by 
the  Delaware  River.  Camden  lies  low  and  flat — a  great, 
168 


WALT    WHITMAN 


sandy,  monotonous  waste  of  straggling  buildings.  Here 
and  there  are  straight  rows  of  cheap  houses,  evidently 
erected  by  staid,  broad-brimmed  speculators  from  across 
the  river,  with  eyes  on  the  main  chance.  But  they 
reckoned  ill,  for  the  town  did  not  boom.  Some  of  these 
houses  have  marble  steps  and  white,  barn-like  shutters, 
that  might  withstand  a  siege.  When  a  funeral  takes  place 
in  one  of  these  houses,  the  shutters  are  tied  with  strips 
of  mournful,  black  alpaca  for  a  year  and  a  day.  Engi- 
neers, dockmen,  express-drivers  and  mechanics  largely 
make  up  the  citizens  of  Camden.  Of  course,  Camden  has 
its  smug  corner  where  prosperous  merchants  most  do 
congregate:  where  they  play  croquet  in  the  front  yards, 
and  have  window-boxes,  and  a  piano  and  veranda- 
chairs  and  terra-cotta  statuary;  but  for  the  most  part 
the  houses  of  Camden  are  rented,  and  rented  cheap  3$ 
Many  of  the  domiciles  are  frame  and  have  the  happy 
tumbledown  look  of  the  back  streets  in  Charleston  or 
Richmond — those  streets  where  the  white  trash  merges 
off  into  prosperous  colored  aristocracy.  Old  hats  do  duty 
in  keeping  out  the  fresh  air  where  Providence  has  inter- 
fered and  broken  out  a  pane;  blinds  hang  by  a  single 
hinge;  bricks  on  the  chimney- tops  threaten  the  passers- 
by;  stringers  and  posts  mark  the  place  where  proud 
picket  fences  once  stood — the  pickets  having  gone  for 
kindling  long  ago.  In  the  warm,  Summer  evenings,  men 
in  shirt-sleeves  sit  on  the  front  steps  and  stolidly  smoke, 
while  children  pile  up  sand  in  the  streets  and  play  in  the 

169 


WALT    WHITMAN 


gutters,  ^f  Parallel  with  Mickle  Street,  a  block  away,  are 
railway-tracks.  There  noisy  switch-engines  that  never 
keep  Sabbath,  puff  back  and  forth,  day  and  night, 
sending  showers  of  soot  and  smoke  when  the  wind  is 
right  (and  it  usually  is)  straight  over  Number  328, 
where,  according  to  John  Addington  Symonds  and 
William  Michael  Rossetti,  lived  the  mightiest  seer  of 
the  century — the  man  whom  they  rank  with  Socrates, 
Epictetus,  Saint  Paul,  Michelangelo  and  Dante. 
It  was  in  August  of  Eighteen  Hundred  Eighty- three  that 
I  first  walked  up  that  little  street — a  hot,  sultry  Summer 
evening.  There  had  been  a  shower  that  turned  the  dust 
of  the  unpaved  roadway  to  mud.  The  air  was  close  and 
muggy.  The  houses,  built  right  up  to  the  sidewalks,  over 
which,  in  little  gutters,  the  steaming  sewage  ran,  seemed 
to  have  discharged  their  occupants  into  the  street  to 
enjoy  the  cool  of  the  day.  Barefooted  children  by  the 
score  paddled  in  the  mud.  All  the  steps  were  filled  with 
loungers ;  some  of  the  men  had  discarded  not  only  coats 
but  shirts  as  well,  and  now  sat  in  flaming  red  underwear, 
holding  babies. 

They  say  that  "  woman's  work  is  never  done,"  but  to 
the  women  of  Mickle  Street  this  does  not  apply — but 
stay!  perhaps  their  work  IS  never  done.  Anyway,  I 
remember  that  women  sat  on  the  curbs  in  calico  dresses 
or  leaned  out  of  the  windows,  and  all  seemed  supremely 
free  from  care. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Whitman  lives!  "  I  asked 
170 


WALT    WHITMAN 


a  portly  dame  who  was  resting  her  elbows  on  a  window- 
sill  53  53 
"Who?" 
"Mr.  Whitman!" 
*  You  mean  Walt  Whitman?  " 
"  Yes." 

'*  Show  the  gentleman,  Molly;  he  '11  give  you  a  nickel, 

1*  i  " 

m  sure! 

I  had  not  seen  Molly.  She  stood  behind  me,  but  as  her 
mother  spoke  she  seized  tight  hold  of  one  of  my  fingers, 
claiming  me  as  her  lawful  prey,  and  all  the  other  chil- 
dren looked  on  with  envious  eyes  as  little  Molly  threw 
at  them  glances  of  scorn  and  marched  me  off.  Molly  was 
five,  going  on  six,  she  told  me.  She  had  bright-red  hair, 
a  grimy  face  and  little  chapped  feet  that  made  not  a 
sound  as  we  walked.  She  got  her  nickel  and  carried  it  in 
her  mouth,  and  this  made  conversation  difficult.  After 
going  one  block  she  suddenly  stopped,  squared  me 
around  and  pointing  said,  "  Them  is  he!  "  and  dis- 
appeared 53  53 

In  a  wheeled  rattan  chair,  in  the  hallway,  a  little  back 
from  the  door  of  a  plain,  weather-beaten  house,  sat  the 
coatless  philosopher,  his  face  and  head  wreathed  in  a 
tumult  of  snow-white  hair. 

I  had  a  little  speech,  all  prepared  weeks  before  and 
committed  to  memory,  that  I  intended  to  repeat,  telling 
him  how  I  had  read  his  poems  and  admired  them.  And 
further  I  had  stored  away  in  my  mind  a  few  blades  from 

171 


WALT    WHITMAN 


"  Leaves  of  Grass  "  that  I  purposed  to  bring  out  at  the 

right  time  as  a  sort  of  certificate  of  character.  But  when 

that  little  girl  jerked  me  right-about-face  and  heartlessly 

deserted  me,  I  stared  dumbly  at  the  man  whom  I  had 

come  a  hundred  miles  to  see.  I  began  angling  for  my 

little  speech,  but  could  not  fetch  it. 

"  Hello!  "   called  the  philosopher,   out  of  the  white 

aureole.  "  Hello!  come  here,  boy!  " 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  as  I  took  it  there  was  a  grasp 

with  meaning  in  it. 

"  Don't  go  yet,  Joe,"  he  said  to  a  man  seated  on  the 

step  smoking  a  cob-pipe. 

'  The  old  woman  's  calling  me,"  said  the  swarthy  Joe. 
Joe  evidently  held  truth  lightly.  *'  So  long,  Walt!  "  3l 
"  Good-by,  Joe.  Sit  down,  lad;  sit  down!  " 
I  sat  in  the  doorway  at  his  feet. 

"  Now  is  n't  it  queer — that  fellow  is  a  regular  philoso- 
pher and  works  out  some  great  problems,  but  he  's 
ashamed  to  express  'em.  He  could  no  more  give  you 
his  best  than  he  could  fly.  Ashamed,  Is' pose,  ashamed 
of  the  best  that  is  in  him.  We  are  all  a  little  that  way — 
all  but  me — I  try  to  write  my  best,  regardless  of  whether 
the  thing  sounds  ridiculous  or  not — regardless  of  what 
others  think  or  say  or  have  said.  Ashamed  of  our  holiest, 
truest  and  best!  Is  it  not  too  bad? 

'  You  are  twenty-five  now  ?  Well,  boy,  you  may  grow 
until  you  are  thirty  and  then  you  will  be  as  wise  as  you 
ever  will  be.  Have  n't  you  noticed  that  men  of  sixty 
172 


WALT    WHITMAN 


have  no  clearer  vision  than  men  of  forty  ?  One  reason  is 
that  we  have  been  taught  that  we  know  all  about  life 
and  death  and  the  mysteries  of  the  grave.  But  the  main 
reason  is  that  we  are  ashamed  to  shove  out  and  be 
ourselves.  Jesus  expressed  His  own  individuality  per- 
haps more  than  any  other  man  we  know  of,  and  so  He 
wields  a  wider  influence  than  any  other.  And  this  though 
we  only  have  a  record  of  just  twenty-seven  days  of  His 
life.  Now  that  fellow  that  just  left  is  an  engineer,  and  he 
dreams  some  beautiful  dreams;  but  he  never  expresses 
them  to  any  one — only  hints  them  to  me,  and  this  only 
at  twilight.  He  is  like  a  weasel  or  a  mink  or  a  whippoor- 
will — he  comes  out  only  at  night. 

'  If  the  weather  was  like  this  all  the  time,  people 
would  never  learn  to  read  and  write,'  said  Joe  to  me  just 
as  you  arrived.  And  is  n't  that  so?  Here  we  can  count  a 
hundred  people  up  and  down  this  street,  and  not  one  is 
reading,  not  one  but  that  is  just  lolling  about,  except  the 
children — and  they  are  happy  only  when  playing  in  the 
dirt.  Why,  if  this  tropical  weather  should  continue  we 
would  all  slip  back  into  South  Sea  Islanders!  You  can 
raise  good  men  only  in  a  little  strip  around  the  North 
Temperate  Zone — when  you  get  out  of  the  track  of  a 
glacier,  a  tender-hearted,  sympathetic  man  of  brains  is 
an  accident." 

Then  the  old  man  suddenly  ceased  and  I  imagined  that 
he  was  following  the  thought  out  in  his  own  mind.  We 
sat  silent  for  a  space.  The  twilight  fell,  and  a  lamplighter 

173 


WALT    WHITMAN 


lit  the  street  lamp  on  the  corner.  He  stopped  an  instant 
to  salute  the  poet  cheerily  as  he  passed.  The  man  sitting 
on  the  doorstep,  across  the  street,  smoking,  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe  on  his  boot-heel  and  went  indoors. 
Women  called  their  children,  who  did  not  respond,  but 
still  played  on.  Then  the  creepers  were  carried  in,  to  be 
fed  their  bread-and-milk  and  put  to  bed;  and,  shortly, 
shrill  feminine  voices  ordered  the  other  children  indoors, 
and  some  obeyed. 
The  night  crept  slowly  on. 

I  heard  Old  Walt  chuckle  behind  me,  talking  inco- 
herently to  himself,  and  then  he  said,  "  You  are  wonder- 
ing why  I  live  in  such  a  place  as  this}  " 
'  Yes;  that  is  exactly  what  I  was  thinking  of !  " 
'  You  think  I  belong  in  the  country,  in  some  quiet, 
shady  place.  But  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  shut  my  eyes  and 
go  there.  No  man  loves  the  woods  more  than  I — I  was 
born  within  sound  of  the  sea — down  on  Long  Island, 
and  I  know  all  the  songs  that  the  seashell  sings.  But  this 
babble  and  babel  of  voices  pleases  me  better,  especially 
since  my  legs  went  on  a  strike,  for  although  I  can't  walk, 
you  see  I  can  still  mix  with  the  throng,  so  I  suffer  no 
loss  3&  3S 

"In  the  woods,  a  man  must  be  all  hands  and  feet.  I  like 
the  folks,  the  plain,  ignorant,  unpretentious  folks;  and 
the  youngsters  that  come  and  slide  on  my  cellar-door 
do  not  disturb  me  a  bit.  I  'm  different  from  Carlyle — 
you  know  he  had  a  noise-proof  room  where  he  locked 
174 


WALT    WHITMAN 


himself  in.  Now,  when  a  huckster  goes  by,  crying  his 
wares,  I  open  the  blinds,  and  often  wrangle  with  the 
fellow  over  the  price  of  things.  But  the  rogues  have  got 
into  a  way  lately  of  leaving  truck  for  me  and  refusing 
pay.  Today  an  Irishman  passed  in  three  quarts  of 
berries  and  walked  off  pretending  to  be  mad  because  I 
offered  to  pay.  When  he  was  gone,  I  beckoned  to  the 
babies  over  the  way — they  came  over  and  we  had  a 
feast  33  33 

'  Yes,  I  like  the  folks  around  here;  I  like  the  women, 
and  I  like  the  men,  and  I  like  the  babies,  and  I  like  the 
youngsters  that  play  in  the  alley  and  make  mud  pies  on 
my  steps.  I  expect  to  stay  here  until  I  die." 

'  You  speak  of  death  as  a  matter  of  course — you  are  not 
afraid  to  die?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  my  boy ;  death  is  as  natural  as  life,  and  a  deal 
kinder.  But  it  is  all  good — I  accept  it  all  and  give  thanks 
— you  have  not  forgotten  my  chant  to  death?  " 
"Not  I!" 

I  repeated  a  few  lines  from  "  Drum-Taps." 
He  followed  me,  rapping  gently  with  his  cane  on  the 
floor,  and  with  little  interjectory  remarks  of  ' '  That 's 
so!"     'Very   true!"    "Good,   good!"    And   when    I 
faltered  and  lost  the  lines  he  picked  them  up  where 

'  The  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird." 
In  a  strong,  clear  voice,  but  a  voice  full  of  sublime 
feeling,  he  repeated  those  immortal  lines,  beginning, 
"  Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death." 

175 


WALT    WHITMAN 


"  Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 

And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise 

For  the  sure  enwinding  arms  of  cool,  enfolding  Death. 

Dark  Mother,  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 

Then  I  chant  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come, 

come  unfalteringly. 
Approach,  strong  deliveress, 
When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them 
I  joyously  sing  the  death, 
Lost  in  the  loving,  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  Death. 
From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 
Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee,  adornments 

and  feastings  for  thee, 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high 

spread  sky  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful 

night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 
The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose 

voice  I  know, 

176 


WALT    WHITMAN 


And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well-veil'd 

Death, 

And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 
Over  the  tree- tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 
Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad 

fields  and  the  prairies  wide, 
Over   the  dense-packed   cities   all,   and   the   teeming 

wharves,  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  O  Death." 

The  last  playing  youngster  had  silently  disappeared 
from  the  streets.  The  doorsteps  were  deserted — save 
where  across  the  way  a  young  man  and  maiden  sat  in 
the  gloaming,  conversing  in  low  monotone. 
The  clouds  had  drifted  away. 

A  great,  yellow  star  shone  out  above  the  chimney-tops 
in  the  East. 
I  arose  to  go. 

"  I  wish  you  *d  come  oftener — I  see  you  so  seldom, 
lad,"  said  the  old  man,  half -plain  lively. 
I  did  not  explain  that  we  had  never  met  before — that  I 
had  come  from  New  York  purposely  to  see  him.  He 
thought  he  knew  me.  And  so  he  did — as  much  as  I  could 
impart.  The  rest  was  irrelevant.  As  to  my  occupation  or 
name,  what  booted  it ! — he  had  no  curiosity  concerning 
me.  I  grasped  his  outstretched  hand  in  both  of  my  own. 
<I  He  said  not  a  word;  neither  did  I. 
I  turned  and  made  my  way  to  the  ferry — past  the 

177 


WALT    WHITMAN 


whispering  lovers  on  the  doorsteps,  and  over  the  rail- 
way-tracks where  the  noisy  engines  puffed.  As  I  walked 
on  board  the  boat,  the  wind  blew  up  cool  and  fresh  from 
the  West.  The  star  in  the  East  grew  brighter,  and  other 
stars  came  out,  reflecting  themselves  like  gems  in  the 
dark  blue  of  the  Delaware. 

There  was  a  soft  sublimity  in  the  sound  of  the  bells  that 
came  echoing  over  the  waters.  My  heart  was  very  full, 
for  I  had  felt  the  thrill  of  being  in  the  presence  of  a 
great  and  loving  soul. 

It  was  the  first  time  and  the  last  that  I  ever  saw  Walt 
Whitman  3&  & 


178 


WALT    WHITMAN 


GOOD  many  writers  bear  no  message:  they 
carry  no  torch.  Sometimes  they  excite  wonder, 
or  they  amuse  and  divert — divert  us  from  our 
work.  To  be  diverted  to  a  certain  degree  may 
be  well,  but  there  is  a  point  where  earth  ends  and  cloud- 
land  begins,  and  even  great  poets  occasionally  befog  the 
things  they  would  reveal. 

Homer  was  seemingly  blind  to  much  simple  truth; 
Vergil  carries  you  away  from  earth ;  Horace  was  undone 
without  his  Maecenas;  Dante  makes  you  an  exile; 
Shakespeare  was  singularly  silent  concerning  the  doubts, 
difficulties  and  common  lives  of  common  people; 
Byron's  corsair  life  does  not  help  you  in  your  toil,  and 
in  his  fight  with  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers 
we  crave  neutrality;  to  be  caught  in  the  meshes  of 
Pope's  "Dunciad"  is  not  pleasant;  and  Lowell's  "  Fable 
for  Critics  "  is  only  another  "  Dunciad."  But  above  all 
other  poets  who  have  ever  lived,  the  author  of  "  Leaves 
of  Grass  "  was  the  poet  of  humanity. 
Milton  knew  all  about  Heaven,  and  Dante  conducts  us 
through  Hell,  but  it  was  left  for  Whitman  to  show  us 
Earth.  His  voice  never  goes  so  high  that  it  breaks  into 
an  impotent  falsetto,  neither  does  it  growl  and  snarl  at 
things  it  does  not  understand  and  not  understanding  does 
not  like.  He  was  so  great  that  he  had  no  envy,  and  his 
insight  was  so  sure  that  he  had  no  prejudice.  He  never 
boasted  that  he  was  higher,  nor  claimed  to  be  less  than 
any  of  the  other  sons  of  men.  He  met  all  on  terms  of 

179 


WALT    WHITMAN 


absolute  equality,  mixing  with  the  poor,  the  lowly,  the 
fallen,  the  oppressed,  the  cultured,  the  rich — simply  as 
brother  with  brother.  And  when  he  said  to  an  outcast, 
"  Not  till  the  sun  excludes  you  will  I  exclude  you,"  he 
voiced  a  sentiment  worthy  of  a  god. 
He  was  brother  to  the  elements,  the  mountains,  the  seas, 
the  clouds,  the  sky.  He  loved  them  all  and  partook  of 
them  all  in  his  large,  free,  unselfish,  untrammeled  nature. 
His  heart  knew  no  limits,  and  feeling  his  feet  mortised 
in  granite  and  his  footsteps  tenoned  in  infinity  he  knew 
the  amplitude  of  time. 

Only  the  great  are  generous;  only  the  strong  are  for- 
giving. Like  Lot's  wife,  most  poets  look  back  over  their 
shoulders;  and  those  who  are  not  looking  backward 
insist  that  we  shall  look  into  the  future,  and  the  vast 
majority  of  the  whole  scribbling  rabble  accept  the 
precept,  "  Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest."  33 
We  grieve  for  childhood's  happy  days,  and  long  for 
sweet  rest  in  Heaven  and  sigh  for  mansions  in  the  skies. 
And  the  people  about  us  seem  so  indifferent,  and  our 
friends  so  lukewarm ;  and  really  no  one  understands  us, 
and  our  environment  queers  our  budding  spirituality, 
and  the  frost  of  jealousy  nips  our  aspirations:  "O 
Paradise,  O  Paradise,  the  world  is  growing  old ;  who 
would  not  be  at  rest  and  free  where  love  is  never  cold." 
So  sing  the  fearsome  dyspeptics  of  the  stylus.  O  anemic 
he,  you  bloodless  she,  nipping  at  crackers,  sipping  at 
tea,  why  not  consider  that,  although  evolutionists  tell 
180 


WALT    WHITMAN 


us  where  we  came  from,  and  theologians  inform  us 
where  we  are  going  to,  yet  the  only  thing  we  are  really 
sure  of  is  that  we  are  here! 

The  present  is  the  perpetually  moving  spot  where 
history  ends  and  prophecy  begins.  It  is  our  only  pos- 
session: the  past  we  reach  through  lapsing  memory, 
halting  recollection,  hearsay  and  belief;  we  pierce  the 
future  by  wistful  faith  or  anxious  hope;  but  the  present 
is  beneath  our  feet. 

Whitman  sings  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  present. 
He  rebukes  our  groans  and  sighs — bids  us  look  about  on 
every  side  at  the  wonders  of  creation,  and  at  the  miracles 
within  our  grasp.  He  lifts  us  up,  restores  us  to  our  own, 
introduces  us  to  man  and  to  Nature,  and  thus  infuses 
into  us  courage,  manly  pride,  self-reliance,  and  the  strong 
faith  that  comes  when  we  feel  our  kinship  with  God  33 
He  was  so  mixed  with  the  universe  that  his  voice  took 
on  the  sway  of  elemental  integrity  and  candor.  Abso- 
lutely honest,  this  man  was  unafraid  and  unashamed,  for 
Nature  has  neither  apprehension,  shame  nor  vainglory. 
In  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  Whitman  speaks  as  all  men  have 
ever  spoken  who  believe  in  God  and  in  themselves — orac- 
ular, without  apology  or  abasement — fearlessly.  He  tells 
of  the  powers  and  mysteries  that  pervade  and  guide 
all  life,  all  death,  all  purpose.  His  work  is  masculine,  as 
the  sun  is  masculine;  for  the  Prophetic  Voice  is  as  surely 
masculine  as  the  lullaby  and  lyric  cry  are  feminine  3$ 
Whitman  brings  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  the  buds 

181 


WALT    WHITMAN 


of  the  heart,  so  that  they  open  and  bring  forth  form, 
color,  perfume.  He  becomes  for  them  aliment  and  dew; 
so  these  buds  become  blossoms,  fruits,  tall  branches 
and  stately  trees  that  cast  refreshing  shadows. 
There  are  men  who  are  to  other  men  as  the  shadow  of  a 
mighty  rock  in  a  weary  land — such  is  Walt  Whitman. 


182 


VICTOR  HUGO 


Man  is  neither  master  of  his  life  nor  of  his  fate.  He  can 
but  offer  to  his  fellowmen  his  efforts  to  diminish  human 
suffering;  he  can  but  offer  to  God  his  indomitable  faith 
in  the  growth  of  liberty. 

— Victor  Hugo 


VICTOR   HUGO 


VICTOR  HUGO 


HE  father  of  Victor  Hugo  was  a  gen- 
eral in  the  army  of  Napoleon,  his 
mother  a  woman  of  rare  grace  and 
brave  good  sense.  Victor  was  the 
third  of  three  sons.  Six  weeks  before 
the  birth  of  her  youngest  boy,  the 
mother  wrote  to  a  very  dear  friend 
of  her  husband,  this  letter: 


'  To  General  Victor  Lahorie, 

"  Citizen-General: 

"  Soon  to  become  the  mother  of  a  third  child,  it  would 
be  very  agreeable  to  me  if  you  would  act  as  its  god- 
father. Its  name  shall  be  yours — one  which  you  have 
not  belied  and  one  which  you  have  so  well  honored: 
Victor  or  Victorine.  Your  consent  will  be  a  testimonial 
of  your  friendship  for  us. 

"  Please  accept,  Citizen-General,  the  assurance  of  our 
sincere  attachment. 

"  Femme  Hugo." 

Victorine  was  expected,  Victor  came.  General  Lahorie 
acted  as  sponsor  for  the  infant. 

A  soldier's  family  lives  here  or  there,  everywhere  or 
anywhere.  In  Eighteen  Hundred  Eight,  General  Hugo 
was  with  Joseph  Bonaparte  in  Spain.  Victor  was  then 
six  years  old.  His  mother  had  taken  as  a  residence  a 
quaint  house  in  the  Impasse  of  the  Feullan tines,  Paris. 

185 


VICTOR    HUGO 


It  was  one  of  those  peculiar  old  places  occasionally  seen 
in  France.  The  environs  of  London  have  a  few ;  America 
none  of  which  I  know.  This  house,  roomy,  comfortable 
and  antiquated,  was  surrounded  with  trees  and  a  tangle 
of  shrubbery,  vines  and  flowers ;  above  it  all  was  a  high 
stone  wall,  and  in  front  a  picket  iron  gate.  It  was  a 
mosaic — a  sample  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  inlaid  in 
this;  solitary  as  the  woods;  quiet  as  a  convent;  sacred 
as  a  forest;  a  place  for  dreams,  and  reverie,  and  rest. 
At  the  back  of  the  house  was  a  dilapidated  little  chapel. 
Here  an  aged  priest  counted  his  beads,  said  daily  mass, 
and  endeavored  to  keep  moth,  rust  and  ruin  from  the 
house  of  prayer.  This  priest  was  a  scholar,  a  man  of 
learning:  he  taught  the  children  of  Madame  Hugo  33 
Another  man  lived  in  this  chapel.  He  never  went  out- 
side the  gate  and  used  to  take  exercise  at  night.  He  had 
a  cot-bed  in  the  shelter  of  the  altar;  beneath  his  pillow 
were  a  pair  of  pistols  and  a  copy  of  Tacitus.  This  man 
lived  there  Summer  and  Winter,  although  there  was  no 
warmth  save  the  scanty  sunshine  that  stole  in  through 
the  shattered  windows.  He,  too,  taught  the  children  and 
gave  them  little  lectures  on  history.  He  loved  the 
youngest  boy  and  would  carry  him  on  his  shoulder  and 
tell  him  stories  of  deeds  of  valor. 

One  day  a  file  of  soldiers  came.  They  took  this  man  and 
manacled  him.  The  mother  sought  to  keep  her  children 
inside  the  house  so  that  they  should  not  witness  the 
scene,  but  she  did  not  succeed.  The  boys  fought  their 
186 


VICTOR    HUGO 


mother  and  the  servants  in  a  mad  frenzy  trying  to  rescue 
the  old  man.  The  soldiers  formed  in  columns  of  four  and 
marched  their  prisoner  away. 

Not  long  after,  Madame  Hugo  was  passing  the  church 
of  Saint  Jacques  du  Haut  Pas :  her  youngest  boy's  hand 
was  in  hers.  She  saw  a  large  placard  posted  in  front  of 
the  church.  She  paused  and  pointing  to  it  said,  "  Victor, 
read  that!  "  The  boy  read.  It  was  a  notice  that  General 
Lahorie  had  been  shot  that  day  on  the  plains  of  Gren- 
ville  by  order  of  a  court  martial. 

General  Lahorie  was  a  gentleman  of  Brittany.  He  was 
a  Republican,  and  five  years  before  had  grievously 
offended  the  Emperor.  A  charge  of  conspiracy  being 
proved  against  him,  a  price  was  placed  upon  his  head, 
and  he  found  a  temporary  refuge  with  the  mother  of  his 
godson  53  53 

That  tragic  incident  of  the  arrest,  and  the  placard 
announcing  General  Lahorie's  death,  burned  deep  into 
the  soul  of  the  manling,  and  who  shall  say  to  what 
extent  it  colored  his  future  life? 

When  Napoleon  met  his  downfall,  it  was  also  a  Water- 
loo for  General  Hugo.  His  property  was  confiscated,  and 
penury  took  the  place  of  plenty. 

When  Victor  was  nineteen,  his  mother  having  died,  the 
family  life  was  broken  up.  In  "  Les  Miserables"  the  early 
struggles  of  Marius  are  described;  and  this,  the  author 
has  told  us,  may  be  considered  autobiography.  He  has 
related  how  the  young  man  lived  in  a  garret;  how  he 

187 


VICTOR    HUGO 


would  sweep  this  barren  room;  how  he  would  buy  a 
pennyworth  of  cheese,  waiting  until  dusk  to  get  a  loaf 
of  bread,  and  slink  home  as  furtively  as  if  he  had  stolen 
it;  how  carrying  his  book  under  his  arm  he  would  enter 
the  butcher's  shop,  and  after  being  elbowed  by  jeering 
servants  till  he  felt  the  cold  sweat  standing  out  on  his 
forehead,  he  would  take  off  his  hat  to  the  astonished 
butcher  and  ask  for  a  single  mutton-chop.  This  he  would 
carry  to  his  garret,  and  cooking  it  himself  it  would  be 
made  to  last  for  three  days. 

In  this  way  he  managed  to  live  on  less  than  two  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  derived  from  the  proceeds  of  poems, 
pamphlets  and  essays.  At  this  time  he  was  already  an 
"  Academy  Laureate,"  having  received  honorable  men- 
tion for  a  poem  submitted  in  a  competition. 
In  his  twentieth  year,  fortune  came  to  him  in  triple 
form:  he  brought  out  a  book  of  poems  that  netted  him 
seven  hundred  francs;  soon  after  the  publication  of  this 
book,  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  who  knew  the  value  of 
having  friends  who  were  ready  writers,  bestowed  on  him 
a  pension  of  one  thousand  francs  a  year ;  then  these  two 
pieces  of  good  fortune  made  possible  a  third — his 
marriage  3S  3$ 

Early  marriages  are  like  late  ones:  they  may  be  wise 
and  they  may  not.  Victor  Hugo's  marriage  with  Adele 
Foucher  was  a  most  happy  event. 

A  man  with  a  mind  as  independent  as  Victor  Hugo's  is 
sure  to  make  enemies.  The  "  Classics"  were  positive  that 
188 


he  was  defiling  the  well  of  Classic  French,  and  they 
sought  to  write  him  down.  But  by  writing  a  man  up 
you  can  not  write  him  down;  the  only  thing  that  can 
smother  a  literary  aspirant  is  silence. 
Victor  Hugo  coined  the  word  when  he  could  not  find  it, 
transposed  phrases,  inverted  sentences,  and  never  called 
a  spade  an  agricultural  implement.  Not  content  with 
this,  he  put  the  spade  on  exhibition  and  this  often  at 
unnecessary  times,  and  occasionally  prefaced  the  word 
with  an  adjective.  Had  he  been  let  alone  he  would  not 
have  done  this. 

The  censors  told  him  he  must  not  use  the  name  of 
Deity,  nor  should  he  refer  so  often  to  kings.  At  once,  he 
doubled  his  Topseys  and  put  on  his  stage  three  Uncle 
Toms  when  one  might  have  answered.  Like  Shakespeare, 
he  used  idioms  and  slang  with  profusion — anything  to 
express  the  idea.  Will  this  convey  the  thought?  If  so,  it 
was  written  down,  and,  once  written,  Beelzebub  and  all 
his  hosts  could  not  make  him  change  it.  But  in  the 
interest  of  truth  let  me  note  one  exception: 
4  I  do  not  like  that  word,"  said  Mademoiselle  Mars  to 
Victor  Hugo  at  a  rehearsal  of  "  Hernani";  "  can  I  not 
change  it?  " 

"  I  wrote  it  so  and  it  must  stand,"  was  the  answer  3& 
Mademoiselle  Mars  used  another  expression  instead  of 
the  author's,  and  he  promptly  asked  her  to  resign  her 
part.  She  wept,  and  upon  agreeing  to  adhere  to  the  text 
was  reinstated  in  favor. 

189 


VICTOR    HUGO 


Rehearsal  after  rehearsal  occurred,  and  the  words  were 
repeated  as  written.  The  night  of  the  performance  came. 
Superb  was  the  stage-setting,  splendid  the  audience.  The 
play  went  forward  amid  loud  applause.  The  scene  was 
reached  where  came  the  objectionable  word.  Did 
Mademoiselle  Mars  use  it?  Of  course  not;  she  used  the 
word  she  chose — she  was  a  woman.  Fifty-three  times 
she  played  the  part,  and  not  once  did  she  use  the 
author's  pet  phrase;  and  he  was  wise  enough  not  to 
note  the  fact.  The  moral  of  this  is  that  not  even  a  strong 
man  can  cope  with  a  small  woman  who  weeps  at  the 
right  time. 

The  censorship  forbade  the  placing  of  "  Marion 
Delorme"  on  the  stage  until  a  certain  historical  epi- 
sode in  it  had  been  changed.  Would  the  author  be  so 
kind  as  to  change  it?  Not  he. 

'  Then  it  shall  not  be  played,"  said  M.  de  Martignac. 
The  author  hastened  to  interview  the  minister  in  person. 
He  got  a  North  Pole  reception.  In  fact,  M.  de  Martignac 
said  that  it  was  his  busy  day,  and  that  playwriting  was 
foolish  business  anyway;  but  if  a  man  were  bound  to 
write,  he  should  write  to  amuse,  not  to  instruct.  And 
young  Hugo  was  bowed  out. 

When  he  found  himself  well  outside  the  door  he  was 
furious.  He  would  see  the  King  himself.  And  he  did  see 
the  King.  His  Majesty  was  gracious  and  very  patient. 
He  listened  to  the  young  author's  plea,  talked  book-lore, 
recited  poetry,  showed  that  he  knew  Hugo's  verses, 
190 


VICTOR    HUGO 


asked  after  the  author's  wife,  then  the  baby,  and — said 
that  the  play  could  not  go  on.  Hugo  turned  to  go. 
Charles  the  Tenth  called  him  back,  and  said  that  he  was 
glad  the  author  had  called — in  fact,  he  was  about  to 
send  for  him.  His  pension  thereafter  should  be  six 
thousand  francs  a  year. 

Victor  Hugo  declined  to  receive  it.  Of  course,  the  papers 
were  full  of  the  subject.  All  cafedom  took  sides:  Paris 
had  a  topic  for  gesticulation,  and  Paris  improved  the 
opportunity. 

Conservatism  having  stopped  this  play,  there  was  only 
one  thing  to  do:  write  another;  for  a  play  of  Victor 
Hugo's  must  be  put  upon  the  stage.  All  his  friends  said 
so ;  his  honor  was  at  stake. 

In  three  weeks  another  play  was  ready.  The  censors 
read  it  and  gave  their  report.  They  said  that "  Hernani " 
was  whimsical  in  conception,  defective  in  execution,  a 
tissue  of  extravagances,  generally  trivial  and  often 
coarse.  But  they  advised  that  it  be  put  upon  the  stage, 
just  to  show  the  public  to  what  extent  of  folly  an  author 
could  go.  In  order  to  preserve  the  dignity  of  their  office, 
they  drew  up  a  list  of  six  places  where  the  text  should 
be  changed. 

Both  sides  were  afraid,  so  each  was  willing  to  give  in  a 
point.  The  text  was  changed,  and  the  important  day 
for  the  presentation  was  drawing  nigh.  The  Roman- 
ticists were,  of  course,  anxious  that  the  play  should  be  a 
great  success;  the  Classics  were  quite  willing  that  it 

191 


VICTOR    HUGO 


should  be  otherwise;  in  fact,  they  had  bought  up  the 
claque  and  were  making  arrangements  to  hiss  it  down. 
But  the  author's  friends  were  numerous;  they  were 
young  and  lusty ;  they  held  meetings  behind  locked  doors, 
and  swore  terrible  oaths  that  the  play  should  go. 
On  the  day  of  the  initial  performance,  five  hours  before 
the  curtain  rose,  they  were  on  hand,  having  taken  the 
best  seats  in  the  house.  They  also  took  the  worst, 
wherever  a  hisser  might  hide.  These  advocates  of  liberal 
art  wore  coats  of  green  or  red  or  blue,  costumes  like 
bullfighters,  trousers  and  hats  to  match  or  not  to  match 
— anything  to  defy  tradition.  All  during  the  perform- 
ance there  was  an  uproar.  Theophile  Gautier  has  de- 
scribed the  event  in  most  entertaining  style,  and  in 
"  L'Historie  de  Romanticisme "  the  record  of  it  is 
found  in  detail. 

Several  American  writers  have  touched  upon  this 
particular  theme,  and  all  who  have  seen  fit  to  write  of  it 
seem  to  have  stood  under  umbrellas  when  God  rained 
humor.  One  writer  calls  it  "  the  outburst  of  a  tremen- 
dous revolution  in  literature."  He  speaks  of  "smoldering 
flames,"  "  the  hordes  that  furiously  fought  entrenched 
behind  prestige,  age,  caste,  wealth  and  tradition," 
"  suppression  and  extermination  of  heresy,"  "  those 
who  sought  to  stop  the  onward  march  of  civilization," 
etc.  Let  us  be  sensible.  A  "  cane-rush  "  is  not  a  revolu- 
tion, and  "  Bloody  Monday  "  at  Harvard  is  not  "  a 
decisive  battle  in  the  onward  and  upward  march."  5& 
192 


VICTOR    HUGO 


If  "  Hernani "  had  been  hissed  down,  Victor  Hugo  would 
have  lived  just  as  long  and  might  have  written  better  33 
Civilization  is  not  held  in  place  by  noisy  youths  in 
flaming  waistcoats;  and  even  if  every  cabbage  had  hit 
its  mark,  and  every  egg  bespattered  its  target,  the 
morning  stars  would  still  sing  together. 
*  The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame  "  was  next  turned  out 
— written  in  five  months — and  was  a  great  success. 
Publishers  besieged  the  author  for  another  story,  but 
he  preferred  poetry.  It  was  thirty  years  before  his  next 
novel,  "  Les  Miserables,"  appeared.  But  all  the  time 
he  wrote — plays,  verses,  essays,  pamphlets.  Everything 
that  he  penned  was  widely  read.  Amid  storms  of  oppo- 
sition and  cries  of  bravo,  continually  making  friends, 
he  moved  steadily  forward. 

Men  like  Victor  Hugo  can  be  killed  or  they  may  be 
banished,  but  they  can  not  be  bought;  neither  can  they 
be  intimidated  into  silence.  He  resigned  his  pension  and 
boldly  expressed  himself  in  his  own  way. 
He  knew  history  by  heart  and  toyed  with  it ;  politics  was 
his  delight.  But  it  is  a  mistake  to  call  him  a  statesman. 
He  was  bold  to  rashness,  impulsive,  impatient  and 
vehement.  Because  a  man  is  great  is  no  reason  why  he 
should  be  proclaimed  perfect.  Such  men  as  Victor  Huge 
need  no  veneer — the  truth  will  answer :  he  would  explode 
a  keg  of  powder  to  kill  a  fly.  He  was  an  agitator.  But 
these  zealous  souls  are  needed — not  to  govern  or  to  be 
blindly  followed,  but  rather  to  make  other  men  think 

193 


VICTOR    HUGO 


for  themselves.  Yet  to  do  this  in  a  monarchy  is  not  safe. 
<J  The  years  passed,  and  the  time  came  for  either  Hugo 
or  Royalty  to  go ;  France  was  not  large  enough  for  both. 
It  proved  to  be  Hugo;  a  bounty  of  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  was  offered  for  his  body,  dead  or  alive.  Through 
a  woman's  devotion  he  escaped  to  Brussels.  He  was 
driven  from  there  to  Jersey,  then  to  Guernsey. 
It  was  nineteen  years  before  he  returned  to  Paris — 
years  of  banishment,  but  years  of  glory.  Exiled  by  Fate 
that  he  might  do  his  work! 


194 


VICTOR    HUGO 


ACH  day  a  steamer  starts  from  Southampton 
for  Guernsey,  Alderney  and  Jersey.  These  are 
names  known  to  countless  farmers*  boys  the 
wide  world  over. 
You  can  not  mistake  the  Channel  Island  boats — they 
smell  like  a  county  fair,  and  though  you  be  blind  and 
deaf  it  is  impossible  to  board  the  wrong  craft.  Every 
time  one  of  these  staunch  little  steamers  lands  in 
England,  crates  containing  mild-eyed,  lusty  calves  are 
slid  down  the  gangplank,  marked  for  Maine,  Iowa, 
California,  or  some  uttermost  part  of  the  earth.  There 
his  vealship  (worth  his  weight  in  gold)  is  going  to 
found  a  kingdom. 

I  stood  on  the  dock  watching  the  bovine  passengers 
disembark,  and  furtively  listened  the  while  to  an 
animated  argument  between  two  rather  rough-looking, 
red-faced  men,  clothed  in  corduroys  and  carrying  long, 
stout  staffs.  Mixed  up  in  their  conversation  I  caught 
the  names  of  royalty,  then  of  celebrities  great,  and 
artists  famous — warriors,  orators,  philanthropists  and 
musicians.  Could  it  be  possible  that  these  rustics  were 
poets?  It  must  be  so.  And  there  came  to  me  thoughts 
of  Thoreau,  Walt  Whitman,  Joaquin  Miller,  and  all 
that  sublime  company  of  singers  in  shirt-sleeves. 
Suddenly  the  wind  veered  and  the  veil  fell;  all  the 
sacred  names  so  freely  bandied  about  were  those  of 
"  families  "  with  mighty  milk-records. 
When  we  went  on  board  and  the  good  ship  was  slipping 

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VICTOR    HUGO 


down  The  Solent,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  these  men 
and  was  regaled  with  more  cow-talk  than  I  had  heard 
since  I  left  Texas. 

We  saw  the  island  of  Portsea,  where  Dickens  was  born, 
and  got  a  glimpse  of  the  spires  of  Portsmouth  as  we 
passed;  then  came  the  Isle  of  Wight  and  the  quaint 
town  of  Cowes.  I  made  a  bright  joke  on  the  latter  place 
as  it  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  my  Jersey  friend,  but  it 
went  for  naught. 

A  pleasant  sail  of  eight  hours  and  the  towering  cliffs  of 
Guernsey  came  in  sight.  Foam-dashed  and  spray- 
covered  they  rise  right  out  of  the  sea  at  the  south,  to 
the  height  of  two  hundred  seventy  feet.  About  them 
great  flocks  of  sea-fowl  hover,  swirl  and  soar.  Wild, 
rugged  and  romantic  is  the  scene. 

The  Isle  of  Guernsey  is  nine  miles  long  and  six  wide.  Its 
principal  town  is  Saint  Peter  Port,  a  place  of  about 
sixteen  thousand  inhabitants,  where  a  full  dozen  hotel 
porters  meet  the  incoming  steamer  and  struggle  for 
your  baggage. 

Hotels  and  boarding-houses  here  are  numerous  and 
good.  Guernsey  is  a  favorite  resort  for  invalids  and  those 
who  desire  to  flee  the  busy  world  for  a  space.  In  fact, 
the  author  of  "  Les  Miserables"  has  made  exile  popular. 
*J  Emerging  from  my  hotel  at  Saint  Peter  Port  I  was 
accosted  by  a  small  edition  of  Gavroche,  all  in  tatters, 
who  proposed  showing  me  the  way  to  Hauteville  House 
for  a  penny.  I  already  knew  the  route,  but  accepted  the 
196 


VICTOR    HUGO 


offer  on  Gavroche's  promise  to  reveal  to  me  a  secret 
about  the  place.  The  secret  is  this :  The  house  is  haunted, 
and  when  the  wind  is  east,  and  the  setting  moon  shows 
only  a  narrow  rim  above  the  rocks,  ghosts  come  and 
dance  a  solemn  minuet  on  the  glass  roof  above  the 
study  3&  3& 

Had  Gavroche  ever  seen  them  ?  No,  but  he  knew  a  boy 
who  had.  Years  and  years — ever  so  many  years  ago — 
long  before  there  were  any  steamboats,  and  when  only  a 
schooner  came  to  Guernsey  once  a  week,  a  woman  was 
murdered  in  Hauteville  House.  Her  ghost  came  back 
with  other  ghosts  and  drove  the  folks  away.  So  the  big 
house  remained  vacant — save  for  the  spooks,  who  paid 
no  rent  5$  53 

Then  after  a  great,  long  time  Victor  Hugo  came  and 
lived  in  the  house.  The  ghosts  did  not  bother  him.  Faith ! 
they  had  been  keeping  the  place  just  a'  purpose  for  him. 
He  rented  the  house  first,  and  liked  it  so  well  that  he 
bought  it — got  it  at  half-price  on  account  of  the  ghosts. 
Here,  every  Christmas,  Victor  Hugo  gave  a  big  dinner 
in  the  great  oak  hall  to  all  the  children  in  Guernsey: 
hundreds  of  them — all  the  way  from  babies  that  could 
barely  creep,  to  "  boys  "  with  whiskers.  They  were  all 
fed  on  turkey,  tarts,  apples,  oranges  and  figs ;  and  when 
they  went  away,  each  was  given  a  bag  of  candy  to  take 
home  3$  3$ 

Climbing  a  narrow,  crooked  street  we  came  to  the  great, 
dark,  gloomy  edifice  situated  at  the  top  of  a  cliff.  The 

197 


VICTOR    HUGO 


house  was  painted  black  by  some  strange  whim  of  a 
former  occupant. 

'  We  will  leave  it  so,"  said  Victor  Hugo;  "  liberty  is 
dead,  and  we  are  in  mourning  for  her." 
But  the  gloom  of  Hauteville  House  is  only  on  the  out- 
side. Within  all  is  warm  and  homelike.  The  furnishings 
are  almost  as  the  poet  left  them,  and  the  marks  of  his 
individuality  are  on  every  side. 

In  the  outer  hall  stands  an  elegant  column  of  carved  oak, 
its  panels  showing  scenes  from  "The  Hunchback."  In 
the  dining-room  there  is  fantastic  wainscoting  with 
plaques  and  porcelain  tiles  inlaid  here  and  there.  Many 
of  these  ornaments  were  presents,  sent  by  unknown 
admirers  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 
In  "  Les  Miserables ' '  there  is  a  chance  line  revealing  the 
author's  love  for  the  beautiful  as  shown  in  the  grain  of 
woods.  The  result  was  an  influx  of  polished  panels,  slabs, 
chips,  hewings,  carvings,  and  in  one  instance  a  log  sent 
"  collect."  Samples  of  redwood,  ebony,  calamander, 
hamamelis,  suradanni,  tamarind,  satinwood,  mahogany, 
walnut,  maples  of  many  kinds  and  oaks  without  limit — 
all  are  there.  A  mammoth  ax-helve  I  noticed  on  the  wall 
was  labeled,  "  Shagbark-hickory  from  Missouri."  35 
These  specimens  of  wood  were  sometimes  made  up  into 
hatracks,  chairs,  canes,  or  panels  for  doors,  and  are  seen 
in  odd  corners  of  these  rambling  rooms.  Charles  Hugo 
once  facetiously  wrote  to  a  friend:  "  We  have  bought 
no  kindling  for  three  years."  At  another  time  he  writes: 
198 


VICTOR    HUGO 


"  Father  still  is  sure  he  can  sketch  and  positive  he  can 
carve.  He  has  several  jackknives,  and  whittles  names, 
dates  and  emblems  on  sticks  and  furniture — we  tremble 
for  the  piano." 

In  the  dining-room,  I  noticed  a  huge  oaken  chair 
fastened  to  the  wall  with  a  chain.  On  the  mantel  was  a 
statuette  of  the  Virgin ;  on  the  pedestal  Victor  Hugo  had 
engraved  lines  speaking  of  her  as  "  Freedom's  Goddess." 
This  dining-room  affords  a  sunny  view  out  into  the 
garden;  on  this  floor  are  also  a  reception-room,  library 
and  a  smoking-room. 

On  the  next  floor  are  various  sleeping-apartments,  and 
two  cozy  parlors,  known  respectively  as  the  red  room 
and  the  blue.  Both  are  rich  in  curious  draperies,  a  little 
more  pronounced  in  color  than  some  folks  admire  53 
The  next  floor  contains  the  "  Oak  Gallery  " :  a  ballroom 
we  should  call  it.  Five  large  windows  furnish  a  flood  of 
light.  In  the  center  of  this  fine  room  is  an  enormous 
candelabrum  with  many  branches,  at  the  top  a  statue 
of  wood,  the  whole  carved  by  Victor  Hugo's  own  hands. 
<I  The  Oak  Gallery  is  a  regular  museum  of  curiosities  of 
every  sort — books,  paintings,  carvings,  busts,  firearms, 
musical  instruments.  A  long  glass  case  contains  a  large 
number  of  autograph-letters  from  the  world's  celebri- 
ties, written  to  Hugo  in  exile. 

At  the  top  of  the  house  and  built  on  its  flat  roof  is  the 
most  interesting  apartment  of  Hauteville  House — the 
study  and  workroom  of  Victor  Hugo.  Three  of  its  sides 

199 


VICTOR    HUGO 


and  the  roof  are  of  glass.  The  floor,  too,  is  one  immense 
slab  of  sea-green  glass.  Sliding  curtains  worked  by  pulleys 
cut  off  the  light  as  desired.  "  More  light,  more  light," 
said  the  great  man  again  and  again.  He  gloried  and 
reveled  in  the  sunshine. 

Here,  in  the  Winter,  with  no  warmth  but  the  sun's  rays, 
his  eyes  shaded  by  his  felt  hat,  he  wrote,  always  stand- 
ing at  a  shelf  fixed  in  the  wall.  On  this  shelf  were  written 
all  "  The  Toilers,"  "  The  Man  Who  Laughs,"  "  Shake- 
speare "  and  much  of  "  Les  Miserables."  The  leaves  of 
manuscript  were  numbered  and  fell  on  the  floor,  to 
remain  perhaps  for  days  before  being  gathered  up. 
When  Victor  Hugo  went  to  Guernsey  he  went  to  liberty, 
not  to  banishment.  He  arrived  at  Hauteville  House 
poor  in  purse  and  broken  in  health.  Here  the  fire  of  his 
youth  came  back,  and  his  pen  retrieved  the  fortune  that 
royalty  had  confiscated.  The  forenoons  were  given  to 
earnest  work.  The  daughter  composed  music;  the  sons 
translated  Shakespeare  and  acted  as  their  father's 
faithful  helpers;  Madame  Hugo  collected  the  notes  of 
her  husband's  life  and  cheerfully  looked  after  her  house- 
hold affairs. 

Several  hours  of  each  afternoon  were  given  to  romp  and 
play;  the  evenings  were  sacred  to  music,  reading  and 
conversation. 

Horace  Greeley  was  once  a  prisoner  in  Paris.  From  his 
cell  he  wrote,  "  The  Saint  Peter  who  holds  the  keys  of 
this  place  has  kindly  locked  the  world  out ;  and  for  once, 
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VICTOR    HUGO 


thank  Heaven,  I  am  free  from  intrusion."  *I  Lovers  of 
truth  must  thank  exile  for  some  of  our  richest  and 
ripest  literature.  Exile  is  not  all  exile.  Imagination  can 
not  be  imprisoned.  Amid  the  winding  bastions  of  the 
brain,  thought  roams  free  and  untrammeled. 
Liberty  is  only  a  comparative  term,  and  Victor  Hugo 
at  Guernsey  enjoyed  a  thousand  times  more  freedom 
than  ever  ruling  monarch  knew. 

Standing  at  the  shelf-desk  where  this  "  Gentleman  of 
France  "  stood  for  so  many  happy  hours,  I  inscribed  my 
name  in  the  "  visitors'  book." 

I  thanked  the  good  woman  who  had  shown  me  the  place, 
and  told  me  so  much  of  interest — thanked  her  in  words 
that  seemed  but  a  feeble  echo  of  all  that  my  heart 
would  say. 

I  went  down  the  stairs — out  at  the  great  carved  door- 
way— and  descended  the  well-worn  steps. 
Perched  on  a  crag  waiting  for  me  was  little  Gavroche, 
his  rags  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  He  offered  to  show  me 
the  great  stone  chair  where  Gilliatt  sat  when  the  tide 
came  up  and  carried  him  away.  And  did  I  want  to  buy 
a  bull  calf  ?  Gavroche  knew  where  there  was  a  fine  one 
that  could  be  bought  cheap.  Gavroche  would  show  me 
both  the  calf  and  the  stone  chair  for  threepence. 
I  accepted  the  offer,  and  we  went  down  the  stony  street 
toward  the  sea,  hand  in  hand. 


201 


VICTOR    HUGO 


N  the  Twenty-eighth  day  of  June,  Eighteen 
Hundred  Ninety-four,  I  took  my  place  in  the 
long   line   and  passed  slowly   through   the 
Pantheon  at  Paris  and  viewed  the  body  of 
President  Carnot. 

The  same  look  of  proud  dignity  that  I  had  seen  in  life 
was  there — calm,  composed,  serene.  The  inanimate  clay 
was  clothed  in  the  simple  black  of  a  citizen  of  the 
Republic;  the  only  mark  of  office  being  the  red  silken 
sash  that  covered  the  spot  in  the  breast  where  the 
stiletto-stroke  of  hate  had  gone  home. 
Amid  bursts  of  applause,  surrounded  by  loving  friends 
and  loyal  adherents,  he  was  stricken  down  and  passed 
out  into  the  Unknown.  Happy  fate!  to  die  before  the 
fickle  populace  had  taken  up  a  new  idol;  to  step  in  an 
instant  beyond  the  reach  of  malice — to  leave  behind 
the  self-seekers  that  pursue,  the  hungry  horde  that 
follows,  the  zealots  who  defame;  to  escape  the  dagger- 
thrust  of  calumny  and  receive  only  the  glittering  steel 
that  at  the  same  time  wrote  his  name  indelibly  on  the 
roll  of  honor. 

Carnot,  thrice  happy  thou!  Thy  name  is  secure  on 
history's  page,  and  thy  dust  now  resting  beneath  the 
dome  of  the  Pantheon  is  bedewed  with  the  tears  of  thy 
countrymen. 

Saint  Genevieve,  the  patron  saint  of  Paris,  died  in  Five 
Hundred  Twelve.  She  was  buried  on  a  hilltop,   the 
highest  point  in  Paris,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine.  Over 
202 


VICTOR    HUGO 


the  grave  was  erected  a  chapel  which  for  many  years 
was  a  shrine  for  the  faithful.  This  chapel  with  its  addi- 
tions remained  until  Seventeen  Hundred  Fifty,  when  a 
church  was  designed  which  in  beauty  of  style  and  solid- 
ity of  structure  has  rarely  been  equaled.  The  object  of 
the  architect  was  to  make  the  most  enduring  edifice 
possible,  and  still  not  sacrifice  proportion. 
Louis  the  Fifteenth  laid  the  cornerstone  of  this  church 
in  Seventeen  Hundred  Sixty-four,  and  in  Seventeen 
Hundred  Ninety  the  edifice  was  dedicated  by  the  Roman 
Catholics  with  great  pomp.  But  the  spirit  of  revolution 
was  at  work;  and  in  one  year  after,  a  mob  sacked  this 
beautiful  building,  burned  its  pews,  destroyed  its  altar, 
and  wrought  havoc  with  its  ecclesiastical  furniture  38 
The  Convention  converted  the  structure  into  a  memorial 
temple,  inscribing  on  its  front  the  words,  "  Aux  grandes 
Hommes  la  patrie  reconnaisante,"  and  they  named  the 
building  the  Pantheon. 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Six,  the  Catholics  had  gotten 
such  influence  with  the  government  that  the  building 
was  restored  to  them.  After  the  revolution  of  Eighteen 
Hundred  Thirty,  the  church  of  Saint  Genevieve  was 
again  taken  from  the  priests.  It  was  held  until  Eighteen 
Hundred  Fifty-one,  when  the  Romanists  in  the  Assembly 
succeeded  in  having  it  again  reconsecrated.  In  the  mean- 
time, many  of  the  great  men  of  France  had  been  buried 
there  3S  33 

The  first  interment  in  the  Pantheon  was  Mirabeau.  Next 

203 


VICTOR    HUGO 


came  Marat — stabbed  while  in  the  bath  by  Charlotte 
Corday.  Both  bodies  were  removed  by  order  of  the 
Convention  when  the  church  was  given  back  to  Rome  33 
In  the  Pantheon,  the  visitor  now  sees  the  elaborate 
tombs  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  In  the  dim  twilight 
he  reads  the  glowing  inscriptions,  and  from  the  tomb 
of  Rousseau  he  sees  the  hand  thrust  forth  bearing  a  torch 
— but  the  bones  of  these  men  are  not  here. 
While  robed  priests  chanted  the  litany,  as  the  great 
organ  pealed,  and  swinging  censers  gave  off  their  per- 
fume, visitors  came,  bringing  children,  and  they  stopped 
at  the  arches  where  Rousseau  and  Voltaire  slept  side 
by  side,  and  they  said,  "  It  is  here."  And  so  the  dust 
of  infidel  greatness  seemed  to  interfere  with  the  rites. 
A  change  was  made.  Let  Victor  Hugo  tell : 
"  One  night  in  May,  Eighteen  Hundred  Fourteen,  about 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  cab  stopped  near  the  city 
gate  of  La  Gare  at  an  opening  in  a  board  fence.  This 
fence  surrounded  a  large,  vacant  piece  of  ground  belong- 
ing to  the  city  of  Paris.  The  cab  had  come  from  the 
Pantheon,  and  the  coachman  had  been  ordered  to  take 
the  most  deserted  streets.  Three  men  alighted  from  the 
cab  and  crawled  into  the  enclosure.  Two  carried  a  sack 
between  them.  Other  men,  some  in  cassocks,  awaited 
them.  They  proceeded  towards  a  hole  dug  in  the  middle 
of  the  field.  At  the  bottom  of  the  hole  was  quicklime. 
These  men  said  nothing,  they  had  no  lanterns.  The  wan 
daybreak  gave  a  ghastly  light;  the  sack  was  opened.  It 
204 


VICTOR    HUGO 


was  full  of  bones.  These  were  the  bones  of  Jean  Jacques 
and  of  Voltaire,  which  had  been  withdrawn  from  the 
Pantheon  53  5$ 

'  The  mouth  of  the  sack  was  brought  close  to  the  hole, 
and  the  bones  rattled  down  into  that  black  pit.  The  two 
skulls  struck  against  each  other;  a  spark,  not  likely  to  be 
seen  by  those  standing  near,  was  doubtless  exchanged 
between  the  head  that  made  *  The  Philosophical  Dic- 
tionary '  and  the  head  that  made  'The  Social  Contract.' 
When  that  was  done,  when  the  sack  was  shaken,  when 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau  had  been  emptied  into  that  hole, 
a  digger  seized  a  spade,  threw  into  the  opening  the  heap 
of  earth,  and  filled  up  the  grave.  The  others  stamped 
with  their  feet  upon  the  ground,  so  as  to  remove  from  it 
the  appearance  of  having  been  freshly  disturbed.  One  of 
the  assistants  took  for  his  trouble  the  sack — as  the 
hangman  takes  the  clothing  of  his  victim — they  left  the 
enclosure,  got  into  the  cab  without  saying  a  word,  and, 
hastily,  before  the  sun  had  risen,  these  men  got  away." 
*I  The  ashes  of  the  man  who  wrote  these  vivid  words 
now  rest  next  to  the  empty  tombs  of  Voltaire  and 
Rousseau.  But  a  step  away  is  the  grave  of  Sadi-Carnot. 
*I  When  the  visitor  is  conducted  to  the  crypt  of  the 
Pantheon,  he  is  first  taken  to  the  tomb  of  Victor  Hugo. 
The  sarcophagus  on  each  side  is  draped  with  the  red, 
white  and  blue  of  France  and  the  stars  and  stripes  of 
America.  With  uncovered  heads,  we  behold  the  mass  of 
rlowers  and  wreaths,  and  our  minds  go  back  to  Eighteen 

205 


VICTOR    HUGO 


Hundred  Eighty-five,  when  the  body  of  the  chief  citizen 
of  Paris  lay  in  state  at  the  Pantheon  and  five  hundred 
thousand  people  passed  by  and  laid  the  tribute  of  silence 
or  of  tears  on  his  bier. 

The  Pantheon  is  now  given  over  as  a  memorial  to  the 
men  of  France  who  have  enriched  the  world  with  their 
lives.  Over  the  portals  of  this  beautiful  temple  are  the 
words,  "  Liberte,  Egalite,  Fraternite."  Across  its  floors 
of  rarest  mosaic  echo  only  the  feet  of  pilgrims  and  those 
of  the  courteous  and  kindly  old  soldiers  who  have  the 
place  in  charge.  On  the  walls  color  revels  in  beautiful 
paintings,  and  in  the  niches  and  on  the  pedestals  is 
marble  that  speaks  of  greatness  which  lives  in  lives 
made  better. 

The  history  of  the  Pantheon  is  one  of  strife.  As  late  as 
Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy  the  Commune  made  it  a 
stronghold,  and  the  streets  on  every  side  were  called 
upon  to  contribute  their  paving-stones  for  a  barricade. 
Yet  it  seems  meet  that  Victor  Hugo's  dust  should  lie 
here  amid  the  scenes  he  loved  and  knew,  and  where  he 
struggled,  worked,  toiled,  achieved;  from  whence  he  was 
banished,  and  to  which  he  returned  in  triumph,  to 
receive  at  last  the  complete  approbation  so  long  with- 
held 33  5* 

Certainly  not  in  the  quiet  of  a  mossy  graveyard,  nor  in  a 
church  where  priests  mumble  unmeaning  words  at 
fixed  times,  nor  yet  alone  on  the  mountain-side — for  he 
chafed  at  solitude — but  he  should  have  been  buried  at 
206 


VICTOR    HUGO 


sea.  In  the  midst  of  storm  and  driving  sleet,  at  midnight, 
the  sails  should  have  been  lowered,  the  great  engines 
stopped,  and  with  no  requiem  but  the  sobbing  of  the 
night-wind  and  the  sighing  of  the  breeze  through  the 
shrouds,  and  the  moaning  of  the  waves  as  they  surged 
about  the  great,  black  ship,  the  plank  should  have  been 
run  out,  and  the  body  wrapped  in  the  red,  white  and 
blue  of  the  Republic:  the  sea,  the  infinite  mother  of  all, 
beloved  and  sung  by  him,  should  have  taken  his  tired 
form  to  her  arms,  and  there  he  would  rest. 
If  not  this,  then  the  Pantheon. 


207 


WM.  WORDSWORTH 


Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things; 
Of  ebb  and  flow  and  ever-during  power; 
And  central  peace  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation.  Here  you  stand, 
Adore  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not; 
Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought; 
Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

— Wordsworth 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


OME  one  has  told  us  that  Heaven  is 
not  a  place  but  a  condition  of  mind, 
and  it  is  possible  that  he  is  right  3& 
But  if  Heaven  is  a  place,  surely  it  is 
not  unlike  Grasmere.  Such  loveli- 
ness of  landscape  —  such  sylvan 
stretches  of  crystal  water — peace 
and  quiet  and  rest! 
Great,  green  hills  lift  their  heads  to  the  skies,  and  all 
the  old  stone  walls  and  hedgerows  are  covered  with 
trailing  vines  and  blooming  flowers.  The  air  is  rich  with 
song  of  birds,  sweet  with  perfume,  and  the  blossoms 
gaily  shower  their  petals  on  the  passer-by.  Overhead, 
white,  billowy  clouds  float  lazily  over  their  background 
of  ethereal  blue.  Cool  June  breezes  fan  the  cheek. 
Distant  knolls  are  dotted  with  flocks  of  sheep  whose 
bells  tinkle  dreamily ;  and  drowsy  hum  of  beetle  makes 
the  bass,  while  lark  song  forms  the  air  of  the  sweet 
symphony  that  Nature  plays.  Such  was  Grasmere  as  I 
first  saw  it. 

To  love  the  plain,  homely,  common,  simple  things  of 
earth,  of  these  to  sing;  to  make  the  familiar  beautiful 
and  the  commonplace  enchanting;  to  cause  each  bush 
to  burn  with  the  actual  presence  of  the  living  God :  this 
is  the  poet's  office.  And  if  the  poet  lives  near  Grasmere, 
his  task  does  not  seem  difficult. 

211 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


From  Seventeen  Hundred  Ninety-nine  to  Eighteen 
Hundred  Eight,  Wordsworth  lived  at  Dove  Cottage. 
Thanks  to  a  few  earnest  souls,  the  place  is  now  secured 
to  the  people  of  England  and  the  lovers  of  poetry 
wherever  they  may  be.  A  good  old  woman  has  charge 
of  the  cottage,  and  for  a  slight  fee  shows  you  the  house 
and  garden  and  little  orchard  and  objects  of  interest, 
all  the  while  talking:  and  you  are  glad,  for,  although 
unlettered,  she  is  reverent  and  honest.  She  was  born 
here,  and  all  she  knows  is  Wordsworth  and  the  people 
and  the  things  he  loved.  Is  not  this  enough? 
Here  Wordsworth  lived  before  anything  he  wrote  was 
published  in  book  form:  here  his  best  work  was  done, 
and  here  Dorothy — splendid,  sympathetic  Dorothy — 
was  inspiration,  critic,  friend.  But  who  inspired 
Dorothy?  Coleridge  perhaps  more  than  all  others,  and 
we  know  somewhat  of  their  relationship  as  told  in 
Dorothy's  diary.  There  is  a  little  Wordsworth  Library 
in  Dove  Cottage,  and  I  sat  at  the  window  of  "  De 
Quincey's  room  "  and  read  for  an  hour.  Says  Dorothy: 
"  Sat  until  four  o'clock  reading  dear  Coleridge's  letters." 
'  We  paced  the  garden  until  moonrise  at  one  o'clock — 
we  three,  brother,  Coleridge  and  I."  "I  read  Spenser 
to  him  aloud  and  then  we  had  a  midnight  tea." 
Here  in  this  little,  terraced  garden,  behind  the  stone 
cottage  with  its  low  ceilings  and  wide  window-seats  and 
little,  diamond  panes,  she  in  her  misery  wrote: 
"  Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!  Yet  there  is  recompense;  every 
212 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


sight  reminds  me  of  Coleridge,  dear,  dear  fellow;  of  our 
walks  and  talks  by  day  and  night ;  of  all  the  bright  and 
witty,  and  sad  sweet  things  of  which  we  spoke  and 
read.  I  was  melancholy  and  could  not  talk,  and  at  last 
I  eased  my  heart  by  weeping." 

Alas,  too  often  there  is  competition  between  brother  and 
sister,  then  follow  misunderstandings;  but  here  the 
brotherly  and  sisterly  love  stands  out  clear  and  strong 
after  these  hundred  years  have  passed,  and  we  contem- 
plate it  with  delight.  Was  ever  woman  more  honestly 
and  better  praised  than  Dorothy? 

'  The  blessings  of  my  later  years 

Were  with  me  when  I  was  a  boy. 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares  and  gentle  fears, 
A  heart!  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 

And  love  and  thought  and  joy. 
And  she  hath  smiles  to  earth  unknown, 
Smiles  that  with  motion  of  their  own 

Do  spread  and  sink  and  rise; 
That  come  and  go  with  endless  play, 
And  ever  as  they  pass  away 

Are  hidden  in  her  eyes." 

And  so  in  a  dozen  or  more  poems,  we  see  Dorothy 
reflected.  She  was  the  steel  on  which  he  tried  his  flint. 
Everything  he  wrote  was  read  to  her,  then  she  read  it 
alone,  balancing  the  sentences  in  the  delicate  scales  of 

213 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 


her  womanly  judgment.  "  Heart  of  my  heart,  is  this 
well  done?  "  When  she  said,  "  This  will  do,"  it  was  no 
matter  who  said  otherwise. 

Back  of  the  house  on  the  rising  hillside  is  the  little 
garden.  Hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock  is  "  Dorothy's  seat." 
There  I  rested  while  Mrs.  Dixon  discoursed  of  poet  lore, 
and  told  me  of  how,  many  times,  Coleridge  and  Dorothy 
had  sat  in  the  same  seat  and  watched  the  stars. 
Then  I  drank  from  "  the  well,"  which  is  more  properly  a 
spring;  the  stones  that  curb  it  were  placed  in  their 
present  position  by  the  hand  that  wrote  "  The  Prelude." 
Above  the  garden  is  the  orchard,  where  the  green  linnet 
still  sings,  for  the  birds  never  grow  old. 
There,  too,  are  the  circling  swallows;  and  in  a  snug  little 
alcove  of  the  cottage  you  can  read  * '  The  Butterfly ' '  from 
a  first  edition ;  and  then  you  can  go  sit  in  the  orchard, 
white  with  blossoms,  and  see  the  butterflies  that  sug- 
gested the  poem.  And  if  your  eye  is  good  you  can  dis- 
cover down  by  the  lakeside  the  daffodils,  and  listen  the 
while  to  the  cuckoo  call. 

Then  in  the  orchard  you  can  see  not  only  "  the  daisy," 
but  many  of  them,  and,  if  you  wish,  Mrs.  Dixon  will  let 
you  dig  a  bunch  of  the  daisies  to  take  back  to  America; 
and  if  you  do,  I  hope  that  yours  will  prosper  as  have 
mine,  and  that  Wordsworth's  flowers,  like  Wordsworth's 
verse,  will  gladden  your  heart  when  the  blue  sky  of 
your  life  threatens  to  be  o'ercast  with  gray. 
Here  Sou  they  came,  and  "Thalaber"  was  read  aloud  in 
214 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


this  little  garden.  Here,  too,  came  Clarkson,  the  man  with 
a  fine  feminine  carelessness,  as  Dorothy  said.  Charles 
Lloyd  sat  here  and  discoursed  with  William  Calvert. 
Sir  George  Beaumont  forgot  his  title  and  rapped  often 
at  the  quaint,  hinged  door.  An  artist  was  Beaumont, 
but  his  best  picture  they  say  is  not  equal  to  the  lines 
that  Wordsworth  wrote  about  it.  Sir  George  was  not 
only  a  gentleman  according  to  law,  but  one  in  heart, 
for  he  was  a  friend,  kind,  gentle  and  generous.  With 
such  a  friend  Wordsworth  was  rich  indeed.  But  perhaps 
the  friends  we  have  are  only  our  other  selves,  and  we 
get  what  we  deserve. 

We  must  not  forget  the  kindly  face  of  Humphry  Davy, 
whose  gracious  playfulness  was  ever  a  charm  to  the 
Wordsworths.  The  safety-lamp  was  then  only  an 
unspoken  word,  and  perhaps  few  foresaw  the  sweetness 
and  light  that  these  two  men  would  yet  give  to  earth  3& 
Walter  Scott  and  his  wife  came  to  Dove  Cottage  in 
Eighteen  Hundred  Five.  He  did  not  bring  his  title,  for 
it,  like  Humphry  Davy's,  was  as  yet  unpacked  down  in 
London  town.  They  slept  in  the  little  cubby-hole  of  a 
room  in  the  upper  southwest  corner.  One  can  imagine 
Dorothy  taking  Sir  Walter's  shaving-water  up  to  him 
in  the  morning;  and  the  savory  smell  of  breakfast  as 
Mistress  Mary  poured  the  tea,  while  England's  future 
laureate  served  the  toast  and  eggs:  Mr.  Scott  eating 
everything  in  sight  and  talking  a  torrent  the  while  about 
art  and  philosophy  as  he  passed  his  cup  back,  to  the 

215 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


consternation  of  the  hostess,  whose  frugal  ways  were 
not  used  to  such  ravages  of  appetite.  Of  course  she  did 
not  know  that  a  combined  novelist  and  rhymster  ate 
twice  as  much  as  a  simple  poet. 
Afterwards  Mrs.  Scott  tucked  up  her  dress,  putting  on 
one  of  Dorothy's  aprons,  and  helped  do  the  dishes  3& 
Then  Coleridge  came  over  and  they  all  climbed  to  the 
summit  of  Helm  Crag.  Shy  little  De  Quincey  had  read 
some  of  Wordsworth's  poems,  and  knew  from  their 
flavor  that  the  man  who  penned  them  was  a  noble  soul. 
He  came  to  Grasmere  to  call  on  him :  he  walked  past 
Dove  Cottage  twice,  but  his  heart  failed  him  and  he 
went  away  unannounced.  Later,  he  returned  and  found 
the  occupants  as  simple  folks  as  himself  55  Happiness 
was  there  and  good  society;  few  books,  but  fine  culture; 
plain  living  and  high  thinking. 

Wordsworth  lived  at  Rydal  Mount  for  thirty-three 
years,  yet  the  sweetest  flowers  of  his  life  blossomed  at 
Dove  Cottage.  For  difficulty,  toil,  struggle,  obscurity, 
poverty,  mixed  with  aspiration  and  ambition — all  these 
were  here.  Success  came  later,  but  this  is  naught;  for 
the  achievement  is  more  than  the  public  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  deed. 

After  Wordsworth  moved  away,  De  Quincey  rented 
Dove  Cottage  and  lived  in  it  for  twenty-seven  years. 
He  acquired  a  library  of  more  than  five  thousand  vol- 
umes, making  bookshelves  on  four  sides  of  the  little 
rooms  from  floor  to  ceiling.  Some  of  these  shelves  still 
216 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


remain.  Here  he  turned  night  into  day  and  dreamed  the 
dreams  of  "  The  Opium-Eater." 

And  all  these  are  some  of  the  things  that  Mrs.  Dixon 
told  me  on  that  bright  Summer  day.  What  if  I  had 
heard  them  before!  no  difference.  Dear  old  lady,  I 
salute  you  and  at  your  feet  I  lay  my  gratitude  for  a  day 
of  rare  and  quiet  joy. 

"  Farewell,  thou  little  nook  of  mountain  ground, 
Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 
Of  that  magnificent  temple  which  does  bound 
One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  gardens  rare, 
Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The  loveliest  spot  that  man  has  ever  found, 
Farewell !  We  leave  thee  to  Heaven's  peaceful  care, 
Thee,  and  the  Cottage  which  thou  dost  surround." 


217 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


T  places  of  pleasure  and  entertainment  in  the 
Far  West,  are  often  found  functionaries 
known  as  "  bouncers."  It  is  the  duty  of  the 
bouncer  to  give  hints  to  objectionable  visitors 
that  their  presence  is  not  desired.  And  inasmuch  as 
there  are  many  men  who  can  never  take  a  hint  without 
a  kick,  the  bouncer  is  a  person  selected  on  account  of 
his  peculiar  fitness — psychic  and  otherwise — for  the 
place.  We  all  have  special  talents,  and  these  faculties 
should  be  used  in  a  manner  that  will  help  our  fellow- 
men  on  their  way. 

My  acquaintanceship  with  the  bouncer  has  been  only 
general,  not  particular.  Yet  I  have  admired  him  from  a 
distance,  and  the  skill  and  eclat  that  he  sometimes  shows 
in  a  professional  way  has  often  excited  my  admiration. 
<I  In  social  usages,  America  borrows  constantly  from 
the  mother  country.  But  like  all  borrowing  it  seems  to 
be  one-sided,  for  seldom,  very,  very  seldom,  in  point  of 
etiquette  and  manners  does  England  borrow  from  us. 
Yet  there  are  exceptions. 

It  is  a  beautiful  highway  that  skirts  Lake  Windermere 
and  follows  up  through  Ambleside.  We  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  old  home  of  Harriet  Martineau,  and  "  Fox 
Howe,"  the  home  of  Matthew  Arnold.  Just  before 
Rydal  Water  is  reached  comes  Rydal  Road,  running 
straight  up  the  hillside,  off  from  the  turnpike.  Rydal 
Mount  is  the  third  house  up  on  the  left-hand  side.  I 
knew  the  location,  for  I  had  read  of  it  many  times,  and 
218 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


in  my  pocketbook  I  carried  a  picture  taken  from  an  old 
"  Frank  Leslie's,"  showing  the  house. 
My  heart  beat  fast  as  I  climbed  the  hill.  To  visit  the 
old  home  of  one  who  was  Poet  Laureate  of  England  is 
no  small  event  in  the  life  of  a  book-lover.  I  was  full  of 
poetry  and  murmured  lines  from  "  The  Excursion  "  as  I 
walked.  Soon  rare  old  Rydal  Mount  came  in  sight 
among  the  wealth  of  green.  I  stopped  and  sighed.  Yes, 
yes,  Wordsworth  lived  here  for  thirty-three  years,  and 
here  he  died;  the  spot  whereon  I  then  stood  had  been 
pressed  many  times  by  his  feet.  I  walked  slowly,  with 
uncovered  head,  and  approached  the  gate.  It  was 
locked.  I  fumbled  at  the  latch;  and  just  as  there  came  a 
prospect  of  its  opening,  a  loud,  deep,  guttural  voice 
dashed  over  me  like  a  wave: 
4  There — you!  now,  wot  you  want?  " 
The  owner  of  this  voice  was  not  ten  feet  away,  but  he 
was  standing  up  close  to  the  wall  and  I  had  not  seen 
him.  I  was  somewhat  startled  at  first.  The  man  did  not 
move.  I  stepped  to  one  side  to  get  a  better  view  of  my 
interlocutor,  and  saw  him  to  be  a  large,  red  man  of 
perhaps  fifty.  A  handkerchief  was  knotted  around  his 
thick  neck,  and  he  held  a  heavy  hoe  in  his  hand.  A 
genuine  beefeater  he  was,  only  he  ate  too  much  beef 
and  the  ale  he  drank  was  evidently  Extra  XXX. 
His  scowl  was  so  needlessly  severe  and  his  manner  so 
belligerent  that  I — thrice  armed,  knowing  my  cause 
was  just — could  not  restrain  a  smile.  I  touched  my  hat 

219 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


and  said,  "  Ah,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Falstaff,  you  are  the 
bouncer?      33  S& 

"  Never  mind  wot  I  am,  sir — 'oo  are  you?  " 
I  am  a  great  admirer  of  Wordsworth " 

'  That 's  the  way  they  all  begins.  Cawn't  ye  hadmire 
'im  on  that  side  of  the  wall  as  well  as  this?  " 
There  is  no  use  of  wasting  argument  with  a  man  of  this 
stamp;  besides  that,  his  question  was  to  the  point.  But 
there  are  several  ways  of  overcoming  one's  adversary: 
I  began  feeling  in  my  pocket  for  pence.  My  enemy 
ceased  glaring,  stepped  up  to  the  locked  gate  as  though 
he  half -wished  to  be  friendly,  and  there  was  sorrow  in 
his  voice:  "  Don't  tempt  me,  sir;  don't  do  ut!  The 
Missus  is  peekin'  out  of  the  shutters  at  us  now." 
"  And  do  you  never  admit  visitors,  even  to  the 
grounds?  53  33 

"  No,  sir,  never,  God  'elp  me!  and  there  's  many  an 
honest  bob  I  could  turn  by  ut,  and  no  one  'urt.  But  I  Ve 
lost  my  place  twic't  by  ut.  They  took  me  back  though. 
The  Guv'ner  'ud  never  forgive  me  again.  '  It 's  three 
times  and  out,  Mister  'Opkins,'  says  'ee,  only  last 
Whitsuntide." 
"  But  visitors  do  come?  " 

'  Yes,  sir;  but  they  never  gets  in.  Mostly  'mer'cans; 
they  don't  know  no  better,  sir.  They  picks  all  the  ivy 
orf  the  outside  of  the  wall,  and  you  sees  yourself  there  's 
no  leaves  on  the  lower  branches  of  that  tree.  Then  they 
carries  away  so  many  pebbles  from  out  there  that  I  Ve 
220 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


to  dump  in  a  fresh  weelbarrel  full  o*  gravel  every 
week,  sir,  don't  you  know." 

He  thrust  a  pudgy,  freckled  hand  through  the  bars  of 
the  gate  to  show  that  he  bore  me  no  ill-will,  and  also, 
I  suppose,  to  mollify  my  disappointment.  For  although 
I  had  come  too  late  to  see  the  great  poet  himself  and  had 
even  failed  to  see  the  inside  of  his  house,  yet  I  had  at 
least  been  greeted  at  the  gate  by  his  proxy.  I  pressed  the 
hand  firmly,  pocketed  a  handful  of  gravel  as  a  memento, 
then  turned  and  went  my  way. 

And  all  there  is  to  tell  about  my  visit  to  Rydal  Mount 
is  this  interview  with  the  bouncer. 


221 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


ORDSWORTH  lived  eighty  years.  His  habita- 
tion, except  for  short  periods,  was  never  more 
than  a  few  miles  from  his  birthplace.  His 
education  was  not  extensive,  his  learning  not 
profound.  He  lacked  humor  and  passion ;  in  his  character 
there  was  little  personal  magnetism,  and  in  his  work 
there  is  small  dramatic  power. 

He  traveled  more  or  less  and  knew  humanity,  but  he 
did  not  know  man.  His  experience  in  so-called  practical 
things  was  slight,  his  judgment  not  accurate.  So  he 
lived — quietly,  modestly,  dreamily. 
His  dust  rests  in  a  country  churchyard,  the  grave 
marked  by  a  simple  slab.  A  gnarled,  old  yew-tree  stands 
guard  above  the  grass-grown  mound.  The  nearest  rail- 
road is  fifteen  miles  away. 

As  a  poet,  Wordsworth  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  the 
second  class.  Shelley,  Browning,  Mrs.  Browning, 
Tennyson,  far  surpass  him;  and  the  sweet  singer  of 
Michigan,  even  in  uninspired  moments,  never  "  threw 
off  "  anything  worse  than  this: 

"  And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick: 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 
Rests  upon  ankles  swollen  and  thick; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 
One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
Lives  with  him  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  common." 
222 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


Jove  may  nod,  but  when  he  makes  a  move  it  counts. 
*JYet  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  upon  the  thought 
and  feeling  of  the  world  has  been  very  great.  He  him- 
self said,  "  The  young  will  read  my  poems  and  be  better 
for  their  truth."  Many  of  his  lines  pass  as  current  coin: 
'  The  child  is  father  of  the  man,"  '  The  light  that  never 
was  on  land  nor  sea,"  "  Not  too  bright  and  good  for 
human  nature's  daily  food,"  '  Thoughts  that  do  lie  too 
deep  for  tears,"  '  The  mighty  stream  of  tendency,"  and 
many  others.  "  Plain  living  and  high  thinking "  is 
generally  given  to  Emerson,  but  he  discovered  it  in 
Wordsworth,  and  recognizing  it  as  his  own  he  took  it. 
In  a  certain  book  of  quotations,  "  The  still  sad  music  of 
humanity  "  is  given  to  Shakespeare;  but  to  equalize 
matters  we  sometimes  attribute  to  Wordsworth  "  The 
Old  Oaken  Bucket." 

The  men  who  win  are  those  who  correct  an  abuse. 
Wordsworth's  work  was  a  protest — mild  yet  firm — 
against  the  bombastic  and  artificial  school  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century.  Before  his  day  the  "  timber " 
used  by  poets  consisted  of  angels,  devils,  ghosts,  gods; 
onslaught,  tourneys,  jousts,  tempests  of  hate  and  tor- 
rents of  wrath,  always  of  course  with  a  very  beautiful 
and  very  susceptible  young  lady  just  around  the 
corner.  The  women  in  those  days  were  always  young 
and  ever  beautiful,  but  seldom  wise  and  not  often  good. 
The  men  were  saints  or  else  "  bad,"  generally  bad. 
Like  the  cats  of  Kilkenny,  they  fought  on  slight  cause. 

223 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


<I  Our  young  man  at  Hawkshead  School  saw  this:  it 
pleased  him  not,  and  he  made  a  list  of  the  things  on 
which  he  would  write  poems.  This  list  includes:  sunset, 
moonrise,  starlight,  mist,  brooks,  shells,  stones,  butter- 
flies, moths,  swallows,  linnets,  thrushes,  wagoners, 
babies,  bark  of  trees,  leaves,  nests,  fishes,  rushes, 
leeches,  cobwebs,  clouds,  deer,  music,  shade,  swans, 
crags  and  snow.  He  kept  his  vow  and  "  went  it  one 
better,"  for  among  his  verses  I  find  the  following  titles: 
"Lines  Left  Upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-Tree, "  "Lines  Com- 
posed a  Few  Miles  Above  Tin  tern  Abbey,"  '  To  a 
Wounded  Butterfly,"  "  To  Dora's  Portrait,"  "To  the 
Cuckoo,"  "  On  Seeing  a  Needlebook  Made  in  the  Shape 
of  a  Harp,"  etc. 

Wordsworth's  service  to  humanity  consists  in  the  fact 
that  he  has  shown  us  old  truth  in  a  new  light,  and  has 
made  plain  the  close  relationship  that  exists  between 
physical  nature  and  the  soul  of  man.  Is  this  much  or 
little?  I  think  it  is  much.  When  we  realize  that  we  are  a 
part  of  all  that  we  see,  or  hear,  or  feel,  we  are  not  lonely. 
But  to  feel  a  sense  of  separation  is  to  feel  the  chill  of  death. 
<I  Wordsworth  taught  that  the  earth  is  the  universal 
Mother  and  that  the  life  of  the  flower  has  its  source  in 
the  same  universal  life  from  whence  ours  is  derived.  To 
know  this  truth  is  to  feel  a  tenderness,  a  kindliness,  a 
spirit  of  fraternalism,  toward  every  manifestation  of 
this  universal  life.  No  attempt  was  made  to  say  the  last 
word,  only  a  wish  to  express  the  truth  that  the  spirit  of 
224  " 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


God  is  manifest  on  every  hand,  fl  Now  this  is  a  very 
simple  philosophy.  No  far-reaching,  syllogistic  logic  is 
required  to  prove  it;  no  miracle,  nor  special  dispen- 
sation is  needed;  you  just  feel  that  it  is  so,  that 's  all, 
and  it  gives  you  peace.  Children,  foolish  folks,  old  men, 
whose  sands  of  life  are  nearly  run,  comprehend  it. 
But  heaven  bless  you!  you  can't  prove  any  such  foolish- 
ness. Jeffrey  saw  the  ridiculousness  of  these  assumptions 
and  so  he  declared,  4'This  will  never  do,"  and  for 
twenty  years  "The  Edinburgh  Review"  never  ceased 
to  fling  off  fleers  and  jeers — and  to  criticize  and  scoff. 
That  a  great  periodical,  rich  and  influential,  in  the  city 
which  was  the  very  center  of  learning,  should  go  so  much 
out  of  its  way  to  attack  a  quiet  countryman  living  in  a 
four- roomed  cottage,  away  off  in  the  hills  of  Cumber- 
land, seems  a  little  queer. 

Then,  this  countryman  did  not  seek  to  found  a  kingdom, 
nor  to  revolutionize  society,  nor  did  he  force  upon  the 
world  his  pattypan  rhymes  about  linnets,  and  larks,  and 
daffodils.  Far  from  it:  he  was  very  modest — diffident, 
in  fact — and  his  song  was  quite  in  the  minor  key,  but 
still  the  chain-shot  and  bombs  of  literary  warfare  were 
sent  hissing  in  his  direction. 

There  is  a  little  story  about  a  certain  general  who 
figured  as  division-commander  in  the  War  of  Secession: 
this  warrior  had  his  headquarters,  for  a  time,  in  a 
typical  Southern  home  in  the  Tennessee  Mountains. 
The  house  had  a  large  fireplace  and  chimney;  in  this 

225 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


chimney,  swallows  had  nests.  One  day,  as  the  great 
man  was  busy  at  his  maps,  working  out  a  plan  of 
campaign  against  the  enemy,  the  swallows  made  quite 
an  uproar.  Perhaps  some  of  the  eggs  were  hatching; 
anyway,  the  birds  were  needlessly  noisy  in  their  domestic 
affairs,  and  it  disturbed  the  great  man — he  grew 
nervous.  He  called  his  adjutant.  "  Sir,"  said  the  mighty 
warrior,  "  dislodge  those  damn  pests  in  the  chimney, 
without  delay." 

Two  soldiers  were  ordered  to  climb  the  roof  and  dis- 
lodge the  enemy.  Yet  the  swallows  were  not  dislodged, 
for  the  soldiers  could  not  reach  them. 
So  Jeffrey's  tirades  were  unavailing,  and  Wordsworth 
was  not  dislodged. 
"  He  might  as  well  try  to  crush  Skiddaw,"  said  Southey. 


226 


WILLIAM  M.  THACKERAY 


TO  MR.  BROOKFIELD 

September  16,  1849 

Have  you  read  Dickens?  Oh,  it  is  charming!  Brave 
Dickens! "  David  Copperfield  "  has  some  of  his  prettiest 
touches,  and  the  reading  of  the  book  has  done  another 
author  a  great  deal  of  good. 

—W.  M.  T. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY 


WILLIAM  M.  THACKERAY 


HERE  are  certain  good  old  ladies  in 
every  community  who  wear  peren- 
nial mourning.  They  attend  every 
funeral,  carrying  black-bordered 
handkerchiefs,  and  weep  gently  at 
the  right  time.  I  have  made  it  a 
point  to  hunt  out  these  ancient 
dames  at  their  homes,  and,  over  the 
teacups,  I  have  discovered  that  invariably  they  enjoy  a 
sweet  peace — a  happiness  with  contentment — that  is  a 
great  gain.  They  seem  to  be  civilization's  rudimentary 
relic  of  the  Irish  keeners  and  the  paid  mourners  of  the 
Orient  53  5$ 

And  there  is  just  a  little  of  this  tendency  to  mourn  with 
those  who  mourn  in  all  mankind.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
bear  another's  woe — and  then  there  is  always  a  grain 
of  mitigation,  even  in  the  sorrow  of  the  afflicted,  that 
makes  their  tribulation  bearable. 

Burke  affirms,  in  "  On  the  Sublime,"  that  all  men  take 
a  certain  satisfaction  in  the  disasters  of  others.  Just  as 
Frenchmen  lift  their  hats  when  a  funeral  passes  and 
thank  God  that  they  are  not  in  the  hearse,  so  do  we  in 
the  presence  of  calamity  thank  Heaven  that  it  is  not 
ours  Sit  53 

Perhaps  this  is  why  I  get  a  strange  delight  from  walking 
through  a  graveyard  by  night.  All  about  are  the  white 

229 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


monuments  that  glisten  in  the  ghostly  starlight,  the 
night-wind  sighs  softly  among  the  grassy  mounds — all 
else  is  silent — still. 

This  is  the  city  of  the  dead,  and  of  all  the  hundreds  or 
thousands  who  have  traveled  to  this  spot  over  long  and 
weary  miles,  I,  only  I,  have  the  power  to  leave  at  will. 
Their  ears  are  stopped,  their  eyes  are  closed,  their  hands 
are  folded — but  I  am  alive. 

One  of  the  first  places  I  visited  on  reaching  London  was 
Kensal  Green  Cemetery.  I  quickly  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  First  Gravedigger,  a  rare  wit,  over  whose 
gray  head  have  passed  full  seventy  pleasant  summers. 
I  presented  him  a  copy  of  "  The  Shroud,"  the  organ  of 
the  American  Undertakers'  Association,  published  at 
Syracuse,  New  York.  I  subscribe  for  "  The  Shroud  " 
because  it  has  a  bright  wit-and-humor  column,  and  also 
for  the  sweet  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  there  is  still 
virtue  left  in  Syracuse. 

The  First  Gravedigger  greeted  me  courteously,  and 
when  I  explained  briefly  my  posthumous  predilections 
we  grasped  hands  across  an  open  grave  (that  he  had 
just  digged)  and  were  fast  friends. 
"  Do  you  believe  in  cremation,  sir}  "  he  asked. 
"  No,  never;  it 's  pagan." 

"  Aye,  you  are  a  gentleman — and  about  burying  folks 
in  churches?  " 
"Never!   A  grave  should  be  out  under  the  open  sky, 

where  the  sun  by  day  and  the  moon  and  stars " 

230 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


fl  "  Right  you  are.  How  Shakespeare  can  ever  stand  it 
to  have  his  grave  walked  over  by  a  boy  choir  is  more 
than  I  can  understand.  If  I  had  him  here  I  could  look 
after  him  right.  Come,  I  '11  show  you  the  company  I 
keep!"  S&  53 

Not  twenty  feet  from  where  we  stood  was  a  fine  but 
plain  granite  block  to  the  memory  of  the  second  wife  of 
James  Russell  Lowell. 

"  Just  Mr.  Lowell  and  one  friend  stood  by  the  grave 
when  we  lowered  the  coffin — just  two  men  and  no  one 
else  but  the  young  clergyman  who  belongs  here.  Mr. 
Lowell  shook  hands  with  me  when  he  went  away.  He 
gave  me  a  guinea  and  wrote  me  two  letters  afterward 
from  America ;  the  last  was  sent  only  a  week  before  he 
died.  I  '11  show  'em  to  you  when  we  go  to  the  office. 
Say,  did  you  know  him?  " 

He  pointed  to  a  slab,  on  which  I  read  the  name  of 
Sydney  Smith.  Then  we  went  to  the  graves  of  Mulready, 
the  painter;  Kemble,  the  actor;  Sir  Charles  Eastlake, 
the  artist.  Next  came  the  resting-place  of  Buckle — 
immortal  for  writing  a  preface — dead  at  thirty-seven, 
with  his  history  unwrit;  Leigh  Hunt  sleeps  near,  and 
above  his  dust  a  column  that  explains  how  it  was 
erected  by  friends.  In  life  he  asked  for  bread;  when  dead 
they  gave  him  a  costly  pile  of  stone. 
Here  are  also  the  graves  of  Madame  Tietjens;  of  Charles 
Mathews,  the  actor;  and  of  Admiral  Sir  John  Ross,  the 
Arctic  explorer. 

231 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


"  And  just  down  the  hill  aways  another  big  man  is 
buried.  I  knew  him  well;  he  used  to  come  and  visit  us 
often.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  I  said  as  he  was  going 
away,  '  Come  again,  sir;  you  are  always  welcome!  ' 

'  Thank  you,  Mr.  First  Gravedigger,'  says  he;  '  I  will 
come  again  before  long,  and  make  you  an  extended 
visit.'  In  less  than  a  year  the  hearse  brought  him.  That 's 
his  grave — push  that  ivy  away  and  you  can  read  the 
inscription.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him?  " 
It  was  a  plain,  heavy  slab  placed  horizontally,  and  the 
ivy  had  so  run  over  it  that  the  white  of  the  marble  was 
nearly  obscured.  But  I  made  out  this  inscription : 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

Born  July  18,  1811 

Died  Dec.  24,  1863 

ANNE  CARMICHAEL  SMYTH 

Died  Dec.  18,  1864,  aged  72— his  mother 

by  her  first  marriage 

The  unpoetic  exactness  of  that  pedigree  gave  me  a 
slight  chill.  But  here  they  sleep — mother  and  son  in  one 
grave.  She  who  gave  him  his  first  caress  also  gave  him 
his  last;  and  when  he  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  his 
mother,  who  lived  under  the  same  roof,  was  the  first  one 
called.  He  was  the  child  of  her  girlhood — she  was 
scarcely  twenty  when  she  bore  him.  In  life  they  were 
never  separated,  and  in  death  they  are  not  divided.  It  is 
as  both  desired. 
232 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


Thackeray  was  born  in  India,  and  was  brought  to 
England  on  the  death  of  his  father,  when  he  was  six 
years  of  age.  On  the  way  from  Calcutta  the  ship  touched 
at  the  Island  of  Saint  Helena.  A  servant  took  the  lad 
ashore  and  they  walked  up  the  rocky  heights  to  Long- 
wood,  and  there,  pacing  back  and  forth  in  a  garden,  they 
saw  a  short,  stout  man. 

"  Lookee,  lad,  lookee  quick — that 's  him!  He  eats  three 
sheep  every  day  and  all  the  children  he  can  get!  "  3& 
"  And  that 's  all  I  had  to  do  with  the  Battle  of  Water- 
loo," said  "  Old  Thack,"  forty  years  after.  But  you  will 
never  believe  it  after  reading  those  masterly  touches 
concerning  the  battle,  in  "  Vanity  Fair." 
Young  Thackeray  was  sent  to  the  Charterhouse  School, 
where  he  was  considered  rather  a  dull  boy.  He  was  big 
and  good-natured,  and  read  novels  when  he  should  have 
studied  arithmetic.  This  tendency  to  "  play  off  "  stuck 
to  him  at  Cambridge — where  he  did  not  remain  long 
enough  to  get  a  degree,  but  to  the  relief  of  his  tutors 
went  off  on  a  tour  through  Europe. 
Travel  as  a  means  of  education  is  a  very  seductive  bit  of 
sophistry.  Invalids  whom  the  doctors  can  not  cure,  and 
scholars  whom  teachers  can  not  teach,  are  often  advised 
to  take  "  a  change."  Still  there  is  reason  in  it. 
In  England  Thackeray  was  intent  on  law;  at  Paris  he 
received  a  strong  bent  toward  art ;  but  when  he  reached 
Weimar  and  was  introduced  at  the  Court  of  Letters  and 
came  into  the  living  presence  of  Goethe,  he  caught  the 

233 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


infection  and  made  a  plan  for  translating  Schiller. 
<I  Schiller  dead  was  considered  in  Germany  a  greater 
man  than  Goethe  living,  as  if  't  were  an  offense  to  live 
and  a  virtue  to  die.  And  young  William  Makepeace 
wrote  home  to  his  mother  that  Schiller  was  the  greatest 
man  that  ever  lived  and  that  he  was  going  to  translate 
his  books  and  give  them  to  England. 
No  doubt  there  are  certain  people  born  with  a  tendency 
to  infectiousness  in  regard  to  certain  diseases;  so  there 
are  those  who  catch  the  literary  mania  on  slight 
exposure  33  53 

"  I  Ve  got  it,"  said  Thackeray,  and  so  he  had. 
He  went  back  to  England  and  made  groggy  efforts  at 
Blackstone,  and  Somebody's  Digest,  and  What  's-His- 
Name's  Compendium,  but  all  the  time  he  scribbled  and 
sketched  33  53 

The  young  man  had  come  into  possession  of  a  goodly 
fortune  from  his  father's  estate — enough  to  yield  him  an 
income  of  over  two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  But  bad 
investments  and  signing  security  for  friends  took  the 
money  the  way  that  money  usually  goes  when  held  by 
a  man  who  has  not  earned  it. 

*  Talk  about  riches  having  wings,"  said  Thackeray; 
"  my  fortune  had  pinions  like  a  condor,  and  flew  like  a 
carrier-pigeon." 

When  Thackeray  was  thirty  he  was  eking  out  a  meager 
income  writing  poems,  reviews,  criticisms  and  editorials. 
His  wife  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  a  victim  of  mental 
234 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


darkness,  and  his  sorrows  and  anxieties  were  many. 
<I  He  was  known  as  a  bright  writer,  yet  London  is  full 
of  clever,  unsuccessful  men.  But  in  Thackeray's  thirty- 
eighth  year  "  Vanity  Fair  "  came  out,  and  it  was  a 
success  from  the  first. 

In  "  Yesterdays  With  Authors,"  Mr.  Fields  says:  "  I 
once  made  a  pilgrimage  with  Thackeray  to  the  various 
houses  where  his  books  had  been  written ;  and  I  remem- 
ber when  we  came  to  Young  Street,  Kensington,  he  said, 
with  mock  gravity,  '  Down  on  your  knees,  you  rogue, 
for  here  "  Vanity  Fair  "  was  penned;  and  I  will  go  down 
with  you,  for  I  have  a  high  opinion  of  that  little  pro- 
duction myself.'  ' 

Young  Street  is  only  a  block  from  the  Kensington 
Metropolitan  Railway-Station.  It  is  a  little  street 
running  off  Kensington  Road.  At  Number  Sixteen 
(formerly  Number  Thirteen),  I  saw  a  card  in  the 
window,  "  Rooms  to  Rent  to  Single  Gentlemen."  3$ 
I  rang  the  bell,  and  was  shown  a  room  that  the  landlady 
offered  me  for  twelve  shillings  a  week  if  I  paid  in 
advance;  or  if  I  would  take  another  room  one  flight  up 
with  a  "  gent  who  was  studying  hart  "  it  would  be  only 
eight  and  six.  I  suggested  that  we  go  up  and  see  the 
"  gent."  We  did  so,  and  I  found  the  young  man  very 
courteous  and  polite. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  never  heard  Thackeray's  name 
in  connection  with  the  house.  The  landlady  protested 
that  "  no  man  by  the  name  o'  Thack'ry  has  had  rooms 

235 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


here  since  I  rented  the  place;  leastwise,  if  he  has  been 
here  he  called  hisself  by  sumpthink  else,  which  was  like 
o'nuff  the  case,  as  most  ev'rybody  is  crooked  now'days 
— but  surely  no  decent  person  can  blame  me  for  that!  " 
§  I  assured  her  that  she  was  in  no  wise  to  blame. 
From  this  house  in  Young  Street  the  author  of  "  Vanity 
Fair  "  moved  to  Number  Thirty-six  Onslow  Square, 
where  he  wrote  "  The  Virginians."  On  the  south  side  of 
the  Square  there  is  a  row  of  three-storied  brick  houses. 
Thackeray  lived  in  one  of  these  houses  for  nine  years. 
They  were  the  years  when  honors  and  wealth  were  being 
heaped  upon  him;  and  he  was  worldling  enough  to  let 
his  wants  keep  pace  with  his  ability  to  gratify  them.  He 
was  made  of  the  same  sort  of  clay  as  other  men,  for  his 
standard  of  life  conformed  to  his  pocketbook  and  he 
always  felt  poor. 

From  this  fine  house  on  Onslow  Square  he  moved  to  a 
veritable  palace,  which  he  built  to  suit  his  own  taste, 
at  Number  Two  Palace  Green,  Kensington.  But 
mansions  on  earth  are  seldom  for  long — he  died  here  on 
Christmas  Eve,  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty-three.  And 
Charles  Dickens,  Mark  Lemon,  Millais,  Trollope, 
Robert  Browning,  Cruikshank,  Tom  Taylor,  Louis 
Blanc,  Charles  Mathews  and  Shirley  Brooks  were 
among  the  friends  who  carried  him  to  his  rest  3$ 


236 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


0  take  one's  self  too  seriously  is  a  great  mis- 
take. Complacency  is  the  unpardonable  sin, 
and  the  man  who  says,  "  Now  I  'm  sure  of  it," 
has  at  that  moment  lost  it. 
Villagers  who  have  lived  in  one  little  place  until  they 
think  themselves  great,  having  lost  the  sense  of  pro- 
portion through  lack  of  comparison,  are  generally  "  in 
dead  earnest." 

Surely  they  are  often  intellectually  dead,  and  I  do  not 
dispute  the  fact  that  they  are  in  earnest.  All  those  excel- 
lent gentlemen  in  the  days  gone  by  who  could  not 
contemplate  a  celestial  bliss  that  did  not  involve  the 
damnation  of  those  who  disagreed  with  them  were  in 
dead  earnest  3&  33 

Cotton  Mather  once  saw  a  black  cat  perched  on  the 
shoulder  of  an  innocent,  chattering  old  gran' ma.  The 
next  day  a  neighbor  had  a  convulsion;  and  Cotton 
Mather  went  forth  and  exorcised  Tabby  with  a  hymn- 
book,  and  hanged  gran'ma  by  the  neck,  high  on  Gallows 
Hill,  until  she  was  dead. 

Had  the  Reverend  Mr.  Mather  possessed  but  a  mere 
modicum  of  humor  he  might  have  exorcised  the  cat,  but 
I  am  sure  he  would  never  have  troubled  old  gran'ma. 
But  alas,  Cotton  Mather's  conversation  was  limited  to 
yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay — generally,  nay,  nay — and  he 
was  in  dead  earnest. 

In  the  Boston  Public  Library  is  a  book  written  in 
Sixteen  Hundred  Eighty-five  by  Cotton  Mather, 

237 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


entitled,  "  Wonders  of  the  Invisible  World."  This  book 
received  the  endorsement  of  the  Governor  of  the 
Province  and  also  of  the  President  of  Harvard  College. 
The  author  cites  many  cases  of  persons  who  were 
bewitched;  and  also  makes  the  interesting  statement 
that  the  Devil  knows  Greek,  Latin  and  Hebrew,  but 
speaks  English  with  an  accent.  These  facts  were  long  used 
at  Harvard  as  an  argument  in  favor  of  the  Classics.  And 
when  Greek  was  at  last  made  optional,  the  Devil  was  sup- 
posed to  have  filed  a  protest  with  the  Dean  of  the  Faculty. 
<I  The  Reverend  Francis  Gastrell,  who  razed  New  Place, 
and  cut  down  the  poet's  mulberry-tree  to  escape  the 
importunities  of  visitors,  was  in  dead  earnest.  Attila, 
and  Herod,  and  John  Calvin  were  in  dead  earnest.  And 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  Luther  had  lucid  intervals 
when  he  went  about  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  he 
surely  would  have  worked  grievous  wrong. 
Recent  discoveries  in  Egyptian  archeology  show  that  in 
his  lifetime  Moses  was  esteemed  more  as  a  wit  than  as  a 
lawmaker.  His  jokes  were  posted  upon  the  walls  and 
explained  to  the  populace,  who  it  seems  were  a  bit  slow. 
*I  Job  was  a  humorist  of  a  high  order,  and  when  he  said 
to  the  wise  men,  "No  doubt  but  ye.  are  the  people,  and 
wisdom  shall  die  with  you,"  he  struck  twelve.  When  the 
sons  of  Jacob  went  down  into  Egypt  and  Joseph  put  up 
the  price  of  corn,  took  their  money,  and  then  secretly 
replaced  the  coin  in  the  sacks,  he  showed  his  artless  love 
of  a  quiet  joke. 
238 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


Shaeskpeare's  fools  were  the  wisest  and  kindliest  men  at 
court.  When  the  master  decked  a  character  in  cap  and 
bells,  it  was  as  though  he  had  given  bonds  for  the  man's 
humanity.  Touchstone  followed  his  master  into  exile; 
and  when  all  seemed  to  have  forsaken  King  Lear  the  fool 
bared  himself  to  the  storm  and  covered  the  shaking  old 
man  with  his  own  cloak.  And  if  Costard,  Trinculo, 
Touchstone,  Jaques  and  Mercutio  had  lived  in  Salem  in 
Sixteen  Hundred  Ninety- two,  there  would  have  been 
not  only  a  flashing  of  merry  jests,  but  a  flashing  of 
rapiers  as  well,  and  every  gray  hair  of  every  old  dame's 
head  would  have  been  safe  so  long  as  there  was  a  striped 
leg  on  which  to  stand. 

Lincoln,  liberator  of  men,  loved  the  motley.  In  fact,  the 
individual  who  is  incapable  of  viewing  the  world  from  a 
jocular  basis  is  unsafe,  and  can  be  trusted  only  when  the 
opposition  is  strong  enough  to  laugh  him  into  line  33 
In  the  realm  of  English  letters,  Thackeray  is  prince  of 
humorists.  He  could  see  right  through  a  brick  wall, 
and  never  mistook  a  hawk  for  a  hernshaw.  He  had  a  just 
estimate  of  values,  and  the  temperament  that  can  laugh 
at  all  trivial  misfits.  And  he  had,  too,  that  dread 
capacity  for  pain  which  every  true  humorist  possesses, 
for  the  true  essence  of  humor  is  sensibility. 
In  all  literature  that  lives  there  is  mingled  like  pollen 
an  indefinable  element  of  the  author's  personality.  In 
Thackeray's  "  Lectures  on  English  Humorists  "  this 
subtle  quality  is  particularly  apparent.  Elusive,  delicate, 

-     239 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


alluring — it  is  the  actinic  ray  that  imparts  vitality  33 
When  wit  plays  skittles  with  dulness,  dullness  gets 
revenge  by  taking  wit  at  his  word.  Vast  numbers  of 
people  taking  Thackeray  at  his  word  consider  him  a 
bitter  pessimist. 

He  even  disconcerted  bright  little  Charlotte  Bronte,  who 
went  down  to  London  to  see  him,  and  then  wrote  back 
to  Haworth  that  "  the  great  man  talked  steadily  with 
never  a  smile.  I  could  not  tell  when  to  laugh  and  when  to 
cry,  for  I  did  not  know  what  was  fun  and  what  fact." 
9  But  finally  the  author  of  "  Jane  Eyre  "  found  the 
combination,  and  she  saw  that  beneath  the  brusk 
exterior  of  that  bulky  form  there  was  a  woman's  tender 
sympathy  33  33 

Thackeray  has  told  us  what  he  thought  of  the  author  of 
"  Jane  Eyre,"  and  the  author  of  "  Jane  Eyre  "  has  told 
us  what  she  thought  of  the  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair." 
One  was  big  and  whimsical,  the  other  was  little  and 
sincere,  but  both  were  alike  in  this:  their  hearts  were 
wrung  at  the  sight  of  suffering,  and  both  had  tears  for 
the  erring,  the  groping,  and  the  oppressed. 
A  Frenchman  can  not  comprehend  a  joke  that  is  not 
accompanied  by  grimace  and  gesticulation;  and  so 
M.  Taine  chases  Thackeray  through  sixty  solid  pages, 
berating  him  for  what  he  is  pleased  to  term  "  bottled 
hate."  33  33 

Taine  is  a  cynic  who  charges  Thackeray  with  cynicism, 
all  in  the  choicest  of  biting  phrase.  It  is  a  beautiful 
240 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


example  of  sinners  calling  the  righteous  to  repentance — 
a  thing  that  is  often  done,  but  seldom  with  artistic 
finish  53  53 

The  fun  is  too  deep  for  Monsieur,  or  mayhap  the  brand 
is  not  the  yellow  label  to  which  his  palate  is  accustomed, 
so  he  spews  it  all.  Yet  Taine's  criticism  is  charming 
reading,  although  he  is  only  hot  after  an  aniseed  trail  of 
his  own  dragging.  But  the  chase  is  a  deal  more  exciting 
than  most  men  would  lead,  were  there  real  live  game  to 
capture  5353 

If  pushed,  I  might  suggest  several  points  in  this  man's 
make-up  where  God  could  have  bettered  His  work.  But 
accepting  Thackeray  as  we  find  him,  we  see  a  singer 
whose  cage  Fate  had  overhung  with  black  until  he  had 
caught  the  tune.  The  "  Ballad  of  Boullabaisse  "  shows 
a  tender  side  of  his  spirit  that  he  often  sought  to  con- 
ceal. His  heart  vibrated  to  all  finer  thrills  of  mercy;  and 
his  love  for  all  created  things  was  so  delicately  strung 
that  he  would,  in  childish  shame,  sometimes  issue  a 
growl  to  drown  its  rising,  tearful  tones. 
In  the  character  of  Becky  Sharp,  he  has  marshaled  some 
of  his  own  weak  points  and  then  lashed  them  with 
scorn.  He  looked  into  the  mirror  and  seeing  a  potential 
snob  he  straightway  inveighed  against  snobbery.  The 
punishment  does  not  always  fit  the  crime — it  is  excess. 
But  I  still  contest  that  where  his  ridicule  is  most  severe, 
it  is  Thackeray's  own  back  that  is  bared  to  the  knout. 
<I  The  primal  recipe  for  roguery  in  art  is,  "  Know 

241 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


Thyself."  When  a  writer  portrays  a  villain  and  does  it 
well — make  no  mistake,  he  poses  for  the  character 
himself.  Said  gentle  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  "  I  have 
capacity  in  me  for  every  crime." 

The  man  of  imagination  knows  those  mystic  spores  of 
possibility  that  lie  dormant,  and  like  the  magicians  of 
the  East  who  grow  mango-trees  in  an  hour,  he  develops 
the  "  inward  potential  "  at  will.  The  mere  artisan  in 
letters  goes  forth  and  finds  a  villain  and  then  describes 
him,  but  the  artist  knows  a  better  way : "  I  am  that  man." 
One  of  the  very  sweetest,  gentlest  characters  in  litera- 
ture is  Colonel  Newcome.  The  stepfather  of  Thackeray, 
Major  Carmichael  Smyth,  was  made  to  stand  for  the 
portrait  of  the  lovable  Colonel ;  and  when  that  all-round 
athlete,  F.  Hopkinson  Smith,  gave  us  that  other  lovable 
old  Colonel  he  paid  high  tribute  to  "  The  Newcomes." 
^f  Thackeray  was  a  poet,  and  as  such  was  often  caught 
in  the  toils  of  doubt — the  crux  of  the  inquiring  spirit. 
He  aspired  for  better  things,  and  at  times  his  imperfec- 
tions stood  out  before  him  in  monstrous  shape,  and  he 
sought  to  hiss  them  down. 

In  the  heart  of  the  artist-poet  there  is  an  Inmost  Self 
that  sits  over  against  the  acting,  breathing  man  and 
passes  judgment  on  his  every  deed.  To  satisfy  the 
world  is  little;  to  please  the  populace  is  naught;  fame 
is  vapor;  gold  is  dross;  and  every  love  that  has  not  the 
sanction  of  that  Inmost  Self  is  a  viper's  sting.  To  satisfy 
the  demands  of  the  God  within  is  the  poet's  prayer. 
242 


WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY 


What  doubts  beset,  what  taunting  fears  surround,  what 
crouching  sorrows  lie  in  wait,  what  dead  hopes  drag, 
what  hot  desires  pursue,  and  what  kindly  lights  do 
beckon  on — ah!  "  't  is  we  musicians  know." 
Thackeray  came  to  America  to  get  a  pot  of  money,  and 
was  in  a  fair  way  of  securing  it,  when  he  chanced  to  pick 
up  a  paper  in  which  a  steamer  was  announced  to  sail 
that  evening  for  England.  A  wave  of  homesickness 
swept  over  the  big  boy — he  could  not  stand  it.  He 
hastily  packed  up  his  effects  and  without  saying  good-by 
to  any  one,  and  forgetting  all  his  engagements,  he 
hastened  to  the  dock,  leaving  this  note  for  the  kindest 
of  kind  friends:  "  Good-by,  Fields;  good-by,  Mrs.  Fields 
— God  bless  everybody,  says  W.  M.  T." 


243 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


I  hope  for  the  enlargement  of  my  mind,  and  for  the 
improvement  of  my  understanding.  If  I  have  done 
but  little  good,  I  trust  I  have  done  less  harm,  and  that 
none  of  my  adventures  will  be  other  than  a  source  of 
amusing  and  pleasant  recollection.  God  bless  you  all! 

— Pickwick 


-:-.' 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


CHARLES  DICKENS 


HE  path  of  progress  in  certain  prob- 
lems seems  barred  as  by  a  flaming 
sword  S3  33 

More  than  a  thousand  years  before 
Christ,  an  Arab  chief  asked,  "  If  a 
man  die  shall  he  live  again?  "  Every 
man  who  ever  lived  has  asked  the 
same  question,  but  we  know  no 
more  today  about  the  subject  than  did  Job. 
There  are  one  hundred  five  boy  babies  born  to  every 
one  hundred  girls.  The  law  holds  in  every  land  where 
vital  statistics  have  been  kept;  and  Sairey  Gamp  knew 
just  as  much  about  the  cause  why  as  Brown-Sequard, 
Pasteur,  Agnew  or  Austin  Flint. 

There  is  still  a  third  question  that  every  parent,  since 
Adam  and  Eve,  has  sought  to  solve:  "  How  can  I 
educate  this  child  so  that  he  will  attain  eminence?  " 
And  even  in  spite  of  shelves  that  groan  beneath  tomes 
and  tomes,  and  advice  from  a  million  preachers,  the 
answer  is:  Nobody  knows. 

'  There  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will." 

Moses  was  sent  adrift,  but  the  tide  carried  him  into 
power.  The  brethren  of  Joseph  "  deposited  him  into  a 
cavity,"  but  you  can  not  dispose  of  genius  that  way! 

247 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


Demosthenes  was  weighted  (or  blessed)  with  every  dis- 
advantage; Shakespeare  got  into  difficulty  with  a 
woman  eight  years  his  senior,  stole  deer,  ran  away,  and 
— became  the  very  first  among  English  poets ;  Erasmus 
was  a  foundling. 

Once  there  was  a  woman  by  the  name  of  Nancy  Hanks ; 
she  was  thin-breasted,  gaunt,  yellow  and  sad.  At  last, 
living  in  poverty,  overworked,  she  was  stricken  by 
death.  She  called  her  son — homely  as  herself — and 
pointing  to  the  lad's  sister  said,  "  Be  good  to  her,  Abe," 
and  died — died,  having  no  expectation  for  her  boy 
beyond  the  hope  that  he  might  prosper  in  worldly 
affairs  so  as  to  care  for  himself  and  his  sister.  The  boy 
became  a  man  who  wielded  wisely  a  power  mightier 
than  that  ever  given  to  any  other  American.  Seven 
college-bred  men  composed  his  cabinet;  and  Proctor 
Knott  once  said  that  "  if  a  teeter  were  evenly  balanced, 
and  the  members  of  the  cabinet  were  all  placed  on  one 
end,  and  the  President  on  the  other,  he  would  send  the 
seven  wise  men  flying  into  space." 

On  the  other  hand,  Marcus  Aurelius  wrote  his  "  Medi- 
tations "  for  a  son  who  did  not  read  them,  and  whose 
name  is  a  symbol  of  profligacy ;  Charles  Kingsley  penned 
"  Greek  Heroes  "  for  offspring  who  have  never  shown 
their  father's  heroism;  and  Charles  Dickens  wrote  "  A 
Child's  History  of  England  "  for  his  children — none  of 
whom  has  proven  his  proficiency  in  historiology. 
Charles  Dickens  himself  received  his  education  at  the 
248 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


University  of  Hard  Knocks.  Very  early  in  life  he  was 
cast  upon  the  rocks  and  suckled  by  the  she-wolf.  Yet  he 
became  the  most  popular  author  the  world  has  ever 
known,  and  up  to  the  present  time  no  writer  of  books 
has  approached  him  in  point  of  number  of  readers  and 
of  financial  returns.  These  are  facts — facts  so  hard  and 
true  that  they  would  be  the  delight  of  Mr.  Gradgrind  53 
At  twelve  years  of  age,  Charles  Dickens  was  pasting 
labels  on  blacking-boxes;  his  father  was  in  prison.  At 
sixteen,  he  was  spending  odd  hours  in  the  reading-room 
of  the  British  Museum.  At  nineteen,  he  was  Parlia- 
mentary reporter;  at  twenty-one,  a  writer  of  sketches; 
at  twenty-three,  he  was  getting  a  salary  of  thirty-five 
dollars  a  week,  and  the  next  year  his  pay  was  doubled. 
When  twenty-five,  he  wrote  a  play  that  ran  for  seventy 
nights  at  Drury  Lane  Theater.  About  the  same  time  he 
received  seven  hundred  dollars  for  a  series  of  sketches 
written  in  two  weeks.  At  twenty-six,  publishers  were  at 
his  feet  53  53 

When  Dickens  was  at  the  flood-tide  of  prosperity, 
Thackeray,  one  year  his  senior,  waited  on  his  doorstep 
with  pictures  to  illustrate  "  Pickwick." 
He  worked  steadily,  and  made  from  eight  to  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  His  fame  increased,  and  the 
"  New  York  Ledger  "  paid  him  ten  thousand  dollars 
for  one  story  which  he  wrote  in  a  fortnight.  His  collected 
works  fill  forty  volumes.  There  are  more  of  Dickens' 
books  sold  every  year  now  than  in  any  year  in  which  he 

249 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


lived.  There  were  more  of  Dickens'  books  sold  last  year 
than  any  previous  year.  <I"  I  am  glad  that  the  public 
buy  his  books,"  said  Macready;  "  for  if  they  did  not 
he  would  take  to  the  stage  and  eclipse  us  all." 
"  Not  So  Bad  As  We  Seem,"  by  Bulwer-Lytton,  was 
played  at  Devonshire  House  in  the  presence  of  the 
Queen,  Dickens  taking  the  principal  part.  He  gave 
theatrical  performances  in  London,  Liverpool  and 
Manchester,  for  the  benefit  of  Leigh  Hunt,  Sheridan 
Knowles  and  various  other  needy  authors  and  actors. 
He  wrote  a  dozen  plays,  and  twice  as  many  more  have 
been  constructed  from  his  plots. 

He  gave  public  readings  through  England,  Scotland  and 
Ireland,  where  the  people  fought  for  seats.  The  average 
receipts  for  these  entertainments  were  eight  hundred 
dollars  per  night. 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty- three,  he  made  a  six  months' 
tour  of  the  United  States,  giving  a  series  of  readings. 
The  prices  of  admission  were  placed  at  extravagant 
figures,  but  the  box-office  was  always  besieged  until  the 
ticket-seller  put  out  his  lights  and  hung  out  a  sign: 
'  The  standing-room  is  all  taken."  *j[The  gross  receipts 
of  these  readings  were  two  hundred  twenty-nine  thou- 
sand dollars ;  the  expenses  thirty-nine  thousand  dollars ; 
net  profit,  one  hundred  ninety  thousand  dollars. 
Charles  Dickens  died  of  brain-rupture  in  Eighteen 
Hundred  Seventy,  aged  fifty-eight.  His  dust  rests  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 
250 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


O  know  the  London  of  Dickens  is  a  liberal 
education,"  once  said  James  T.  Fields,  who 
was  affectionately  referred  to  by  Charles 
Dickens  as  "  Massachusetts  Jemmy."  And  I 
am  aware  of  no  better  way  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  greatest  city  in  the  world  than  to  follow  the  winding 
footsteps  of  the  author  of  "  David  Copperfield." 
Beginning  his  London  life  when  ten  years  of  age,  he 
shifted  from  one  lodging  to  another,  zigzag,  tacking 
back  and  forth  from  place  to  place,  but  all  the  time 
making  head,  and  finally  dwelling  in  palaces  of  which 
nobility  might  be  proud.  It  took  him  forty-eight  years 
to  travel  from  the  squalor  of  Camden  Town  to  Poet's 
Corner  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

He  lodged  first  in  Bayham  Street.  "  A  washerwoman 
lived  next  door,  and  a  Bow  Street  officer  over  the  way." 
It  was  a  shabby  district,  chosen  by  the  elder  Dickens 
because  the  rent  was  low.  As  he  neglected  to  pay  the 
rent,  one  wonders  why  he  did  not  take  quarters  in 
Piccadilly  &  S3 

I  looked  in  vain  for  a  sign  reading,  "  Washin  dun  Heer," 
but  I  found  a  Bow  Street  orf'cer  who  told  me  that 
Bayham  Street  had  long  since  disappeared. 
Yet  there  is  always  a  recompense  in  prowling  about 
London,  because  if  you  do  not  find  the  thing  you  are 
looking  for,  you  find  something  else  equally  interesting. 
My  Bow  Street  friend  proved  to  be  a  regular  magazine 
of  rare  and  useful  information — historical,  archeological 

251 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


and  biographical,  fl  A  Lunnun  Bobby  has  his  clothes 
cut  after  a  pattern  a  hundred  years  old,  and  he  always 
carries  his  gloves  in  his  hand — never  wearing  them — 
because  this  was  a  habit  of  William  the  Conqueror. 
But  never  mind ;  he  is  intelligent,  courteous  and  obliging, 
and  I  am  perfectly  willing  that  he  should  wear  skirts 
like  a  ballet-dancer  and  a  helmet  too  small,  if  it  is  his 
humor  53  53 

My  perliceman  knew  an  older  orf 'cer  who  was  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Dickens.  Mr.  Dickens  'ad  a  full  perliceman's 
suit  'imself,  issued  to  'im  on  an  order  from  Scotland 
Yard,  and  he  used  to  do  patrol  duty  at  night,  carrying 
'is  bloomin'  gloves  in  'is  'and  and  'is  chinstrap  in  place. 
This  was  told  me  by  my  new-found  friend,  who  volun- 
teered to  show  me  the  way  to  North  Gower  Street  53 
It 's  only  Gower  Street  now  and  the  houses  have  been 
renumbered,  so  Number  Four  is  a  matter  of  conjecture; 
but  my  guide  showed  me  a  door  where  were  the  marks 
of  a  full-grown  plate  that  evidently  had  long  since  dis- 
appeared. Some  days  afterward  I  found  this  identical 
brass  plate  at  an  old  bookshop  in  Cheapside.  The  plate 
read:  "  Mrs.  Dickens'  Establishment."  The  man  who 
kept  the  place  advertised  himself  as  a  "  Bibliopole."  He 
offered  to  sell  me  the  plate  for  one  pun  ten;  but  I  did 
not  purchase,  for  I  knew  where  I  could  get  its  mate  with 
a  deal  more  verdigris — all  for  six  and  eight. 
Dickens  has  recorded  that  he  can  not  recollect  of  any 
pupils  coming  to  the  Establishment.  But  he  remembers 
252 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


when  his  father  was  taken,  like  Mr.  Dorrit,  to  the 
Debtors'  Prison.  He  was  lodged  in  the  top  story  but  one, 
in  the  very  same  room  where  his  son  afterwards  put  the 
Dorrits.  It 's  a  queer  thing  to  know  that  a  book-writer 
can  imprison  folks  without  a  warrant  and  even  kill  them 
and  yet  go  unpunished — which  thought  was  suggested 
to  me  by  my  philosophic  guide. 

From  this  house  in  Gower  Street,  Charles  used  to  go 
daily  to  the  Marshalsea  to  visit  Micawber,  who  not  so 
many  years  later  was  to  act  as  the  proud  amanuensis  of 
his  son  53  53 

The  next  morning  after  I  first  met  Bobby  he  was  off 
duty.  I  met  him  by  appointment  at  the  Three  Jolly 
Beggars  (a  place  pernicious  snug).  He  was  dressed  in  a 
fashionable,  light-colored  suit,  the  coat  a  trifle  short, 
and  a  high  silk  hat.  His  large,  red  neckscarf — set  off  by 
his  bright,  brick-dust  complexion — caused  me  to  mis- 
take him  at  first  for  a  friend  of  mine  who  drives  a  Hoi- 
born  bus  53  53 

Mr.  'Awkins  (for  it  was  he)  greeted  me  cordially,  pulled 
gently  at  his  neck-whiskers,  and,  when  he  addressed  me 
as  Me  Lud,  the  barmaid  served  us  with  much  alacrity 
and  things  53  53 

We  went  first  to  the  church  of  Saint  George;  then  we 
found  Angel  Court  leading  to  Bermondsey,  also 
Marshalsea  Place.  Here  is  the  site  of  the  prison,  where 
the  crowded  ghosts  of  misery  still  hover;  but  small 
trace  could  we  find  of  the  prison  itself,  neither  did  we 

253 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


see  the  ghosts.  We,  however,  saw  a  very  pretty  bar- 
maid at  the  public  in  Angel  Court.  I  think  she  is  still 
prettier  than  the  one  to  whom  Bobby  introduced  me 
at  the  Sign  of  the  Meat-Axe,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
Angel  Court  is  rightly  named. 

The  blacking-warehouse  at  Old  Hungerford  Stairs, 
Strand,  in  which  Charles  Dickens  was  shown  by  Bob 
Fagin  how  to  tie  up  the  pots  of  paste,  has  rotted  down 
and  been  carted  away.  The  coal-barges  in  the  muddy 
river  are  still  there,  just  as  they  were  when  Charles, 
Poll  Green  and  Bob  Fagin  played  on  them  during  the 
dinner-hour.  I  saw  Bob  and  several  other  boys,  grimy 
with  blacking,  chasing  each  other  across  the  flatboats, 
but  Dickens  was  not  there. 

Down  the  river  aways  there  is  a  crazy,  old  warehouse 
with  a  rotten  wharf  of  its  own,  abutting  on  the  water 
when  the  tide  is  in,  and  on  the  mud  when  the  tide  is 
out — the  whole  place  literally  overrun  with  rats  that 
scuffle  and  squeal  on  the  moldy  stairs.  I  asked  Bobby  if 
it  could  not  be  that  this  was  the  blacking-factory;  but 
he  said,  No,  for  this  one  allus  wuz. 
Dickens  found  lodgings  in  Lant  Street  while  his  father 
was  awaiting  in  the  Marshalsea  for  something  to  turn 
up.  Bob  Sawyer  afterward  had  the  same  quarters.  When 
Sawyer  invited  Mr.  Pickwick  "  and  the  other  chaps  " 
to  dine  with  him,  he  failed  to  give  his  number,  so  we 
can  not  locate  the  house.  But  I  found  the  street  and  saw 
a  big,  wooden  Pickwick  on  wheels  standing  as  a  sign 
254 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


for  a  tobacco-shop.  The  old  gentleman  who  runs  the 
place,  and  runs  the  sign  in  every  night,  assured  me  that 
Bob  Sawyer's  room  was  the  first  floor  back.  I  looked  in 
at  it,  but  seeing  no  one  there  whom  I  knew,  I  bought 
tuppence  worth  of  pigtail  in  lieu  of  fee,  and  came  away  SS 
If  a  man  wished  to  abstract  himself  from  the  world,  to 
remove  himself  from  temptation,  to  place  himself 
beyond  the  possibility  of  desire  to  look  out  of  the 
window,  he  should  live  in  Lant  Street,  said  a  great 
novelist.  David  Copperfield  lodged  here  when  he  ordered 
that  glass  of  Genuine  Stunning  Ale  at  the  Red  Lion 
and  excited  the  sympathy  of  the  landlord,  winning  a 
motherly  kiss  from  his  wife. 

The  Red  Lion  still  crouches  (under  another  name)  at 
the  corner  of  Derby  and  Parliament  Streets,  West- 
minster. I  daydreamed  there  for  an  hour  one  morning, 
pretending  the  while  to  read  a  newspaper.  I  can  not, 
however,  recommend  their  ale  as  particularly  stunning. 
9  As  there  are  authors  of  one  book,  so  are  there  readers 
of  one  author — more  than  we  wist.  Children  want  the 
same  bear  story  over  and  over,  preferring  it  to  a  new 
one;  so  "  grown-ups  "  often  prefer  the  dog-eared  book 
to  uncut  leaves. 

Mr.  Hawkins  preferred  the  dog-eared,  and  at  the 
station-house,  where  many  times  he  had  long  hours  to 
wait  in  anticipation  of  a  hurry-up  call,  he  whiled  away 
the  time  by  browsing  in  his  Dickens.  He  knew  no  other 
author,  neither  did  he  wish  to.  His  epidermis  was 

255 


CHARLESrDICKENS 


soaked  with  Dickensology,  and  when  inspired  by  gin 
and  bitters  he  emitted  information  at  every  pore.  To 
him  all  these  bodiless  beings  of  Dickens'  brain  were 
living  creatures.  An  anachronism  was  nothing  to 
Hawkins.  Charley  Bates  was  still  at  large,  Quilp  was 
just  around  the  corner,  and  Gaffer  Hexam's  boat  was 
moored  in  the  muddy  river  below. 
Dickens  used  to  haunt  the  publics,  those  curious 
resting-places  where  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  thirsty 
philosophers  meet  to  discuss  all  sorts  of  themes.  My 
guide  took  me  to  many  of  these  inns  which  the  great 
novelist  frequented,  and  we  always  had  one  legend  with 
every  drink.  After  we  had  called  at  three  or  four  dif- 
ferent snuggeries,  Hawkins  would  begin  to  shake  out 
the  facts  53  53 

Now,  it  is  not  generally  known  that  the  so-called  stories 
of  Dickens  are  simply  records  of  historic  events,  like 
What-do-you-call-um's  plays!  F'r  instance,  Dombey 
and  Son  was  a  well-known  firm,  who  carried  over  into  a 
joint  stock  company  only  a  few  years  ago.  The  concern 
is  now  known  as  The  Dombey  Trading  Company ;  they 
occupy  the  same  quarters  that  were  used  by  their 
illustrious  predecessors. 

I  signified  a  desire  to  see  the  counting-house  so  minutely 
described  by  Dickens,  and  Mr.  Hawkins  agreed  to 
pilot  me  thither  on  our  way  to  Tavistock  Square.  We 
twisted  down  to  the  first  turning,  then  up  three,  then 
straight  ahead  to  the  first  right-hand  turn,  where  we 
256 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


cut  to  the  left  until  we  came  to  a  stuffed  dog,  which  is 
the  sign  of  a  glover.  Just  beyond  this  my  guide  plucked 
me  by  the  sleeve;  we  halted,  and  he  silently  and 
solemnly  pointed  across  the  street.  Sure  enough !  There 
it  was,  the  warehouse  with  a  great  stretch  of  dirty 
windows  in  front,  through  which  we  could  see  dozens  of 
clerks  bending  over  ledgers,  just  as  though  Mr.  Dombey 
were  momentarily  expected.  Over  the  door  was  a  gilt 
sign,  "  The  Bombay  Trading  Co." 
Bobby  explained  that  it  was  all  the  same. 
I  did  not  care  to  go  in;  but  at  my  request  Hawkins 
entered  and  asked  for  Mister  Carker,  the  Junior,  but 
no  one  knew  him.  i 

Then  we  dropped  in  at  The  Silver  Shark,  a  little  inn 
about  the  size  of  a  large  dustbin  of  two  compartments 
and  a  sifter.  Here  we  rested  a  bit,  as  we  had  walked  a 
long  way  3&  3& 

The  barmaid  who  waited  upon  us  was  in  curl-papers, 
but  she  was  even  then  as  pretty  if  not  prettier  than  the 
barmaid  at  the  public  in  Angel  Court,  and  that  is 
saying  a  good  deal.  She  was  about  as  tall  as  Trilby  or  as 
Ellen  Terry,  which  is  a  very  nice  height,  I  think. 
As  we  rested,  Mr.  Hawkins  told  the  barmaid  and  me 
how  Rogue  Riderhood  came  to  this  very  public,  through 
that  same  doorway,  just  after  he  had  his  Alfred  David 
took  down  by  the  Governors  Both.  He  was  a  slouching 
dog,  was  the  Rogue.  He  wore  an  old,  sodden  fur  cap, 
Winter  and  Summer,  formless  and  mangy;  it  looked  like 

257 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


a  drowned  cat.  His  hands  were  always  in  his  pockets 
up  to  his  elbows,  when  they  were  not  reaching  for  some- 
thing, and  when  he  was  out  after  game  his  walk  was  a 
half-shuffle  and  run. 

Hawkins  saw  him  starting  off  this  way  one  night  and 
followed  him — knowing  there  was  mischief  on  hand — 
followed  him  for  two  hours  through  the  fog.  and  rain. 
It  was  midnight  and  the  last  stroke  of  the  bells  that 
tolled  the  hour  had  ceased,  and  their  echo  was  dying 

away,  when  all  at  once 

But  the  story  is  too  long  to  relate  here.  It  is  so  long  that 
when  Mr.  Hawkins  had  finished  it  was  too  late  to  reach 
Tavistock  Square  before  dark.  Mr.  Hawkins  explained 
that  as  bats  and  owls  and  rats  come  out  only  when  the 
sun  has  disappeared,  so  there  are  other  things  that  can 
be  seen  best  by  night.  And  as  he  did  not  go  on  until  the 
next  day  at  one,  he  proposed  that  we  should  go  down  to 
The  Cheshire  Cheese  and  get  a  bite  of  summat  and  then 
sally  forth  3$  3$ 

So  we  hailed  a  bus  and  climbed  to  the  top. 
"She  rolls  like  a  scow  in  the  wake  of  a  liner,"    said 
Bobby,  as  we  tumbled  into  seats.  When  the  bus  man 
came  up  the  little  winding  ladder  and  jingled  his  punch, 
Hawkins  paid  our  fares  with    a  heavy  wink,  and  the 
guard  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  and  passed  on. 
We  got  off  at  The  Cheese  and  settled  ourselves  com- 
fortably in  a  corner. 

The  same  seats  are  there,   running  along  tke  wall, 
258 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


where  Doctor  Johnson,  "  Goldy  "  and  Boswell  so  often 
sat  and  waked  the  echoes  with  their  laughter.  We  had 
chops  and  tomato-sauce  in  recollection  of  Jingle  and 
Trotter.  The  chops  were  of  that  delicious  kind  unknown 
outside  of  England.  I  supplied  the  legend  this  time,  for 
my  messmate  had  never  heard  of  Boswell. 
Hawkins  introduced  me  to  "  the  cove  in  the  white 
apron  "  who  waited  upon  us,  and  then  explained  that  I 
was  the  man  who  wrote  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit." 
He  kissed  his  hand  to  the  elderly  woman  who  presided 
behind  the  nickel-plated  American  cash-register.  The 
only  thing  that  rang  false  about  the  place  was  that 
register,  perked  up  'there  spick-span  new.  Hawkins 
insisted  that  it  was  a  typewriter,  and  as  we  passed  out 
he  took  a  handful  of  matches  (thinking  them  tooth- 
picks) and  asked  the  cashier  to  play  a  tune  on  the  thing- 
umabob, but  she  declined. 

We  made  our  way  to  London  Bridge  as  the  night  was 
settling  down.  No  stars  came  out,  but  flickering, 
fluttering  gaslights  appeared,  and  around  each  post  was 
a  great,  gray,  fluffy  aureole  of  mist.  Just  at  the  entrance 
to  the  bridge  we  saw  Nancy  dogged  by  Noah  Claypole. 
They  turned  down  towards  Billingsgate  Fish-Market, 
and  as  the  fog  swallowed  them,  Hawkins  answered  my 
question  as  to  the  language  used  at  Billingsgate. 
"  It 's  not  so  bloomin'  bad,  you  know;  why,  I  '11  take 
you  to  a  market  in  Islington  where  they  talk  twice  as 
vile."  53  X 

259 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


He  started  to  go  into  technicalities,  but  I  excused  him. 
9  Then  he  leaned  over  the  parapet  and  spat  down  at  a 
rowboat  that  was  passing  below.  As  the  boat  moved  out 
into  the  glimmering  light  we  made  out  Lizzie  Hexam 
at  the  oars,  while  Gaffer  sat  in  the  stern  on  the  lookout. 
fjf  The  Marchioness  went  by  as  we  stood  there,  a  bit  of 
tattered  shawl  over  her  frowsy  head,  one  stocking  down 
around  her  shoetop.  She  had  a  penny  loaf  under  her 
arm,  and  was  breaking  off  bits,  eating  as  she  went  S& 
Soon  came  Snagsby,  then  Mr.  Vincent  Crummels, 
Mr.  Sleary,  the  horseback-rider,  followed  by  Chops, 
the  dwarf,  and  Pickleson,  the  giant.  Hawkins  said  there 
were  two  Picklesons,  but  I  saw  only  one.  Just  below  was 
the  Stone  pier  and  there  stood  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  I  heard 
her  ask: 

"  And  which  of  all  them  smoking  monsters  is  the  Anx- 
works  boat,  I  wonder?  Goodness  me!  " 

'  Which  boat  do  you  want?  "  asked  Ruth. 

'  The  Anxworks   package — I    will   not   deceive   you, 
Sweet;  why  should  I  ?  " 

'  Why,  that  is  the  Antwerp  packet,  in  the  middle," 
said  Ruth. 

"  And  I  wish  it  was  in  Jonidge's  belly,  I  do,"  cried  Mrs. 
Gamp  33  33 

We  came  down  from  the  bridge,  moved  over  toward  Bil- 
lingsgate, past  the  Custom-House,  where  curious  old 
sea-captains  wait  for  ships  that  never  come.  Captain 
Cuttle  lifted  his  hook  to  the  brim  of  his  glazed  hat  as 
260 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


we  passed.  We  returned  the  salute  and  moved  on 
toward  the  Tower. 

"  It 's  a  rum  place;  let 's  not  stop,"  said  Hawkins. 
Thoughts  of  the  ghosts  of  Raleigh,  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  and  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  seemed  to  steady  his  gait 
and  to  hasten  his  footsteps. 

In  a  few  moments  we  saw  just  ahead  of  us  David 
Copperfield  and  Mr.  Peggotty  following  a  woman  whom 
we  could  make  out  walking  excitedly  a  block  ahead.  It 
was  Martha,  intent  on  suicide. 

1  We  '11  get  to  the  dock  first  and  'ead  'er  orf,"  said 
'Awkins.  We  ran  down  a  side  street.  But  a  bright  light 
in  a  little  brick  cottage  caught  our  attention — men  can't 
run  arm  in  arm  anyway.  We  forgot  our  errand  of  mercy 
and  stood  still  with  open  mouths  looking  in  at  the 
window  at  little  Jenny  Wren  hard  at  work  dressing  her 
dolls  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  stab  the  air  with 
her  needle.  Bradley  Headstone  and  Charlie  and  Lizzie 
Hexam  came  in,  and  we  then  passed  on,  not  wishing  to 
attract  attention. 

There  was  an  old  smoke-stained  tree  on  the  corner 
which  I  felt  sorry  for,  as  I  do  for  every  city  tree.  Just 
beyond  was  a  blacksmith's  forge  and  a  timber-yard 
behind,  where  a  dealer  in  old  iron  had  a  shop,  in  front 
of  which  was  a  rusty  boiler  and  a  gigantic  flywheel  half 
buried  in  the  sand. 

There  were  no  crowds  to  be  seen  now,  but  we  walked  on 
and  on — generally  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  streets, 

261 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


turning  up  or  down  or  across,  through  arches  where 
tramps  slept,  by  doorways  where  children  crouched; 
passing  drunken  men,  and  women  with  shawls  over  their 
heads  53  53 

Now  and  again  the  screech  of  a  fiddle  could  be  heard  or 
the  lazy  music  of  an  accordeon,  coming  from  some 
"  Sailors'  Home."  Steps  of  dancing  with  rattle  of  iron- 
shod  boot-heels  clicking  over  sanded  floors,  the  hoarse 
shout  of  the  "  caller-off,"  and  now  and  again  angry 
tones  with  cracked  feminine  falsettos  broke  on  the  air; 
and  all  the  time  the  soft  rain  fell  and  the  steam  seemed 
to  rise  from  the  sewage-laden  streets. 
We  were  in  Stepney,  that  curious  parish  so  minutely 
described  by  Walter  Besant  in  "  All  Sorts  and  Condi- 
tions of  Men  " — the  parish  where  all  children  born  at 
sea  were  considered  to  belong.  We  saw  Brig  Place, 
where  Walter  Gay  visited  Captain  Cuttle.  Then  we 
went  with  Pip  in  search  of  Mrs.  Wimple's  house,  at 
Mill-Pond  Bank,  Chink's  Basin,  Old  Green  Copper 
Rope  Walk;  where  lived  old  Bill  Barley  and  his  daughter 
Clara,  and  where  Magwitch  was  hidden.  It  was  the 
dingiest  collection  of  shabby  buildings  ever  squeezed 
together  in  a  dark  corner  as  a  club  for  tomcats. 
Then,  standing  out  in  the  gloom,  we  saw  Limehouse 
Church,  where  John  Rokesmith  prowled  about  on  a 
'tective  scent;  and  where  John  Harmon  waited  for  the 
third  mate  Radfoot,  intending  to  murder  him.  Next 
we  reached  Limehouse  Hole,  where  Rogue  Riderhood 
262 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


took  the  plunge  down  the  steps  of  Leaving  Shop  53 
Hawkins  thought  he  saw  the  Artful  Dodger  ahead  of 
us  on  the  dock.  He  went  over  and  looked  up  and  down 
and  under  an  old  upturned  rowboat,  then  peered  over 
the  dock  and  swore  a  harmless  oath  that  if  we  could 
catch  him  we  would  run  him  in  without  a  warrant. 
Yes,  we  'd  clap  the  nippers  on  'im  and  march  'im  orf  53 
"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  I  said;  "  I  like  the  fellow  too 
well."  Fortunately  Hawkins  failed  to  find  him. 
Here  it  was  that  the  Uncommercial  Traveler  did  patrol 
duty  on  many  sleepless  nights.  Here  it  was  that  Esther 
Summerson  and  Mr.  Bucket  came.  And  by  the  light  of 
a  match  held  under  my  hat  we  read  a  handbill  on  the 
brick  wall:  "  Found  Drowned!  "  The  heading  stood 
out  in  big,  fat  letters,  but  the  print  below  was  too  damp 
to  read,  yet  there  is  no  doubt  it  is  the  same  bill  that 
Gaffer  Hexam,  Eugene  Wrayburn  and  Mortimer  Light- 
wood  read,  for  Mr.  Hawkins  said  so. 
As  we  stood  there  we  heard  the  gentle  gurgle  of  the  tide 
running  under  the  pier,  then  a  dip  of  oars  coming  from 
out  the  murky  darkness  of  the  muddy  river:  a  challenge 
from  the  shore  with  orders  to  row  in,  a  hoarse,  defiant 
answer  and  a  watchman's  rattle. 

A  policeman  passed  us  running  and  called  back,  "  I  say, 
Hawkins,  is  that  you  7  There  's  murder  broke  loose  in 
Whitechapel  again!  The  reserves  have  been  ordered 
out!"  5353 

Hawkins  stopped  and  seemed  to  pull  himself  together — 

263 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


his  height  increased  three  inches.  A  moment  before  I 
thought  he  was  a  candidate  for  fatty  degeneration  of 
the  cerebrum,  but  now  his  sturdy  frame  was  all  atremble 
with  life  33  33 

"  Another  murder!  I  knew  it.  Bill  Sykes  has  killed 
Nancy  at  last.  There  's  fifty  pun  for  the  man  who  puts 
the  irons  on  'im — I  must  make  for  the  nearest  stishun." 
9  He  gave  my  hand  a  twist,  shot  down  a  narrow  court- 
way — and  I  was  left  to  fight  the  fog,  and  mayhap  this 
Bill  Sykes  and  all  the  other  wild  phantoms  of  Dickens' 
brain,  alone. 


264 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


CERTAIN  great  general  once  said  that  the 
only  good  Indian  is  a  dead  Indian.  Just  why 
the  maxim  should  be  limited  to  aborigines  I 
know  not,  for  when  one  reads  obituaries  he  is 
discouraged  at  the  thoughts  of  competing  in  virtue  with 
those  who  have  gone  hence. 

Let  us  extend  the  remark — plagiarize  a  bit — and  say 
that  the  only  perfect  men  are  those  whom  we  find  in 
books.  The  receipt  for  making  them  is  simple,  yet  well 
worth  pasting  in  your  scrapbook.  Take  the  virtues  of  all 
the  best  men  you  ever  knew  or  heard  of,  leave  out  the 
faults,  then  mix. 

In  the  hands  of  "  the  lady  novelist "  this  composition, 
well  molded,  makes  a  scarecrow,  in  the  hair  of  which  the 
birds  of  the  air  come  and  build  their  nests.  But  manipu- 
lated by  an  expert  a  figure  may  appear  that  starts  and 
moves  and  seems  to  feel  the  thrill  of  life.  It  may  even 
take  its  place  on  a  pedestal  and  be  exhibited  with  other 
waxworks  and  thus  become  confounded  with  the  his- 
toric. And  though  these  things  make  the  unskilful 
laugh,  yet  the  judicious  say,  "  Dickens  made  it,  there- 
fore let  it  pass  for  a  man." 

Dear  old  M.  Taine,  ever  glad  to  score  a  point  against 
the  British,  and  willing  to  take  Dickens  at  his  word, 
says,  "  We  have  no  such  men  in  France  as  Scrooge  and 
Squeers!  "  33  33 

But,  God  bless  you,  M.  Taine,  England  has  no  such 
men  either. 

265 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


The  novelist  takes  the  men  and  women  he  has  known, 
and  from  life,  plus  imagination,  he  creates.  If  he  sticks 
too  close  to  nature  he  describes,  not  depicts:  this  is 
"  veritism."  If  imagination's  wing  is  too  strong,  it  lifts 
the  luckless  writer  off  from  earth  and  carries  him  to  an 
unknown  land.  You  may  then  fall  down  and  worship 
his  characters,  and  there  is  no  violation  of  the  First 
Commandment. 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  that  has  not  been  seen;  but 
imagination  can  assort,  omit,  sift,  select,  construct. 
Given  a  horse,  an  eagle,  an  elephant,  and  the  "  creative 
artist  "  can  make  an  animal  that  is  neither  a  horse,  an 
eagle,  nor  an  elephant,  yet  resembles  each.  This  animal 
may  have  eight  legs  (or  forty)  with  hoofs,  claws  and 
toes  alternating ;  a  beak,  a  trunk,  a  mane ;  and  the  whole 
can  be  feathered  and  given  the  power  of  rapid  flight 
and  also  the  ability  to  run  like  the  East  Wind.  It  can 
neigh,  roar  or  scream  by  turn,  or  can  do  all  in  concert, 
with  a  vibratory  force  multiplied  by  one  thousand  33 
The  novelist  must  have  lived,  and  the  novelist  must 
have  imagination.  But  this  is  not  enough.  He  must  have 
power  to  analyze  and  separate,  and  then  he  should 
have  the  good  taste  to  select  and  group,  forming  his 
parts  into  a  harmonious  whole. 

Yet  he  must  build  large.  Life-size  will  not  do :  the  statue 
must  be  heroic,  and  the  artist's  genius  must  breathe 
into  its  nostrils  the  breath  of  life. 

The  men  who  live  in  history  are  those  whose  lives  have 
266 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


been  skilfully  written.  "  Plutarch  is  the  most  charming 
writer  of  fiction  the  world  has  ever  known,"  said 
Emerson  33  33 

Dickens'  characters  are  personifications  of  traits,  not 
men  and  women.  Yet  they  are  a  deal  funnier — they  are 
as  funny  as  a  box  of  monkeys,  as  entertaining  as  a 
Punch-and-Judy  show,  as  interesting  as  a  fifteen 
puzzle,"  and  sometimes  as  pretty  as  chromos.  Quilp 
munching  the  eggs,  shells  and  all,  to  scare  his  wife, 
makes  one  shiver  as  though  a  Jack-in-the-box  had  been 
popped  out  at  him.  Mr.  Mould,  the  undertaker,  and 
Jaggers,  the  lawyer,  are  as  amusing  as  Humpty- 
Dumpty  and  Pantaloon.  I  am  sure  that  no  live  lawyer 
ever  gave  me  half  the  enjoyment  that  Jaggers  has,  and 
Doctor  Slammers'  talk  is  better  medicine  than  the  pills 
of  any  living  M.  D.  Because  the  burnt-cork  minstrel 
pleases  me  more  than  a  real  "  nigger  "  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  find  fault! 

Dickens  takes  the  horse,  the  eagle  and  the  elephant  and 
makes  an  animal  of  his  own.  He  rubs  up  the  feathers, 
places  the  tail  at  a  fierce  angle,  makes  the  glass  eyes 
glare,  and  you  are  ready  to  swear  that  the  thing  is  alive. 
CJ  By  rummaging  over  the  commercial  world  you  can 
collect  the  harshness,  greed,  avarice,  selfishness  and 
vanity  from  a  thousand  men.  With  these  sins  you  can, 
if  you  are  very  skilful,  construct  a  Ralph  Nickleby,  a 
Scrooge,  a  Jonas  Chuzzlewit,  an  Alderman  Cute,  a 
Mr.  Murdstone,  a  Bounderby  or  a  Gradgrind  at  will. 

267 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


A  little  more  pride,  a  trifle  less  hypocrisy,  a  molecule 
extra  of  untruth,  and  flavor  with  this  fault  or  that,  and 
your  man  is  ready  to  place  up  against  the  fence  to  dry. 
^f  Then  you  can  make  a  collection  of  all  the  ridiculous 
traits — the  whims,  silly  pride,  foibles,  hopes  founded  on 
nothing  and  dreams  touched  with  moonshine — and  you 
make  a  Micawber.  Put  in  a  dash  of  assurance  and  a  good 
thimbleful  of  hypocrisy,  and  Pecksniff  is  the  product. 
Leave  out  the  assurance,  replacing  it  with  cowardice, 
and  the  result  is  Doctor  Chillip  or  Uriah  Heap.  Muddle 
the  whole  with  stupidity,  and  Bumble  comes  forth. 
Then,  for  the  good  people,  collect  the  virtues  and  season 
to  suit  the  taste  and  we  have  the  Cheeryble  Brothers, 
Paul  Dombey  or  Little  Nell.  They  have  no  development, 
therefore  no  history — the  circumstances  under  which 
you  meet  them  vary,  that 's  all.  They  are  people  the 
like  of  whom  are  never  seen  on  land  or  sea. 
Little  Nell  is  good  all  day  long,  while  live  children  are 
good  for  only  five  minutes  at  a  time.  The  recurrence 
with  which  these  five-minute  periods  return  determines 
whether  the  child  is  "  good  "  or  "  bad."  In  the  intervals 
the  restless  little  feet  stray  into  flowerbeds;  stand  on 
chairs  so  that  grimy,  dimpled  hands  may  reach  for- 
bidden jam;  run  and  romp  in  pure  joyous  innocence, 
or  kick  spitefully  at  authority.  Then  the  little  fellow 
may  go  to  sleep,  smile  in  his  dreams  so  that  mamma 
says  angels  are  talking  to  him  (nurse  says  wind  on  the 
stomach);  when  he  awakens  the  five-minute  good  spell 
268 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


returns,  fjf  Men  are  only  grown-up  children.  They  are 
cheerful  after  breakfast,  cross  at  night.  Houses,  lands, 
barns,  railroads,  churches,  books,  racetracks  are  the  play- 
things with  which  they  amuse  themselves  until  they  grow 
tired,  and  Death,  the  kind  old  nurse,  puts  them  to  sleep. 
fl  So  a  man  on  earth  is  good  or  bad  as  mood  moves  him; 
in  color  his  acts  are  seldom  pure  white,  neither  are  they 
wholly  black,  but  generally  of  a  steel-gray.  Caprice, 
temper,  accident,  all  act  upon  him.  The  North  Wind  of 
hate,  the  Simoon  of  Jealousy,  the  Cyclone  of  Passion 
beat  and  buffet  him.  Pilots  strong  and  pilots  cowardly 
stand  at  the  helm  by  turn.  But  sometimes  the  South 
Wind  softly  blows,  the  sun  comes  out  by  day,  the  stars 
at  night:  friendship  holds  the  rudder  firm,  and  love 
makes  all  secure. 

Such  is  the  life  of  man — a  voyage  on  life's  unresting 
sea;  but  Dickens  knows  it  not.  Esther  is  always  good, 
Fagin  is  always  bad,  Bumble  is  always  pompous,  and 
Scrooge  is  always — Scrooge.  At  no  Dickens'  party  do 
you  ever  mistake  Cheeryble  for  Carker;  yet  in  real  life 
Carker  is  Carker  one  day  and  Cheeryble  the  next — yes, 
Carker  in  the  morning  and  Cheeryble  after  dinner. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  a  dummy  so  ridiculous  as 
Pecksniff  has  reduced  the  number  of  hypocrites;  and  the 
domineering  and  unjust  are  not  quite  so  popular  since 
Dickens  painted  their  picture  with  a  broom. 
From  the  yeasty  deep  of  his  imagination  he  conjured 
forth  his  strutting  spirits;  and  the  names  he  gave  to  each 

269 


are  as  fitting  and  as  funny  as  the  absurd  smallclothes 
and  fluttering  ribbons  which  they  wear. 
Shakespeare  has  his  Gobbo,  Touchstone,  Simpcox,  Sly, 
Grumio,  Mopsa,  Pinch,  Nym,  Simple,  Quickly,  Over- 
done, Elbow,  Froth,  Dogberry,  Puck,  Peablossom, 
Taurus,  Bottom,  Bushy,  Hotspur,  Scroop,  Wall,  Flute, 
Snout,  Starveling,  Moonshine,  Mouldy,  Shallow,  Wart, 
Bullcalf,  Feeble,  Quince,  Snag,  Dull,  Mustardseed, 
Fang,  Snare,  Rumor,  Tearsheet,  Cobweb,  Costard  and 
Moth;  but  in  names  as  well  as  in  plot  "  the  father  of 
Pickwick  "  has  distanced  the  Master.  In  fact,  to  give 
all  the  odd  and  whimsical  names  invented  by  Dickens 
would  be  to  publish  a  book,  for  he  compiled  an  indexed 
volume  of  names  from  which  he  drew  at  will.  He  used, 
however,  but  a  fraction  of  his  list.  The  rest  are  wisely 
kept  from  the  public,  else,  forsooth,  the  fledgling  writers 
of  penny-shockers  would  seize  upon  them  for  raw  stock. 
*J  Dickens  has  a  watch  that  starts  and  stops  in  a  way 
of  its  own — never  mind  the  sun.  He  lets  you  see  the 
wheels  go  round,  but  he  never  tells  you  why  the  wheels 
go  round.  He  knows  little  of  psychology — that  curious, 
unseen  thing  that  stands  behind  every  act.  He  knows 
not  the  highest  love,  therefore  he  never  depicts  the 
highest  joy.  Nowhere  does  he  show  the  gradual  awaken- 
ing in  man  of  Godlike  passion — nowhere  does  he  show 
the  evolution  of  a  soul ;  very,  very  seldom  does  he  touch 
the  sublime.  ^  But  he  has  given  the  Athenians  a  day  of 
pleasure,  and  for  this  let  us  all  reverently  give  thanks. 
270 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


Jarvis :  A  few  of  our  usual  cards  of  compliments — that 's 

all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor;  this  from  your  mercer; 

and  this  from  the  little  broker  in  Crooked  Lane.  He 

says  he  has  been  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  back 

the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeydew:  But  I  am  sure  we  were  at  a  great  deal  of 

trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it. 

Jarvis:  He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeydew:  Then  he  has  lost  a  good  thing. 

Jarvis:  There  's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending  to 

the  poor  man  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet.  I  believe 

that  would  stop  his  mouth  for  a  while. 

Honeydew:  Ay,  Jarvis;  but  what  will  fill  their  mouths  in 

the  mean  time  ? 

—GoUsmith,  "  The  Good-Natorvl  Man  " 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


HE  Isle  of  Erin  has  the  same  number 
of  square  miles  as  the  State  of 
Indiana;  it  also  has  more  kindness 
to  the  acre  than  any  other  country 
on  earth. 

Ireland  has  five  million  inhabitants; 
once  it  had  eight.  Three  millions 
have  gone  away,  and  when  one 
thinks  of  landlordism  he  wonders  why  the  five  millions 
did  not  go,  too.  But  the  Irish  are  a  poetic  people  and 
love  the  land  of  their  fathers  with  a  childlike  love,  and 
their  hearts  are  all  bound  up  in  sweet  memories,  rooted 
by  song  and  legend  into  nooks  and  curious  corners,  so 
the  tendrils  of  affection  hold  them  fast. 
Ireland  is  very  beautiful.  Its  pasture-lands  and  meadow- 
lands,  blossom-decked  and  water-fed,  crossed  and 
recrossed  by  never-ending  hedgerows,  that  stretch  away 
and  lose  themselves  in  misty  nothingness,  are  fair  as  a 
poet's  dream.  Birds  carol  in  the  white  hawthorn  and  the 
yellow  furze  all  day  long,  and  the  fragrant  summer 
winds  that  blow  lazily  across  the  fields  are  laden  with  the 
perfume  of  fairest  flowers. 

It  is  like  crossing  the  dark  river  called  Death,  to  many, 
to  think  of  leaving  Ireland — besides  that,  even  if  they 
wanted  to  go  they  have  n't  money  to  buy  a  steerage 
ticket  3$  & 

273 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


From  across  the  dark  river  called  Death  come  no 
remittances;  but  from  America  many  dollars  are  sent 
back  to  Ireland.  This  often  supplies  the  obolus  that 
secures  the  necessary  bit  of  Cunard  passport. 
Whenever  an  Irishman  embarks  at  Queenstown,  part 
of  the  five  million  inhabitants  go  down  to  the  water- 
side to  see  him  off.  Not  long  ago  I  stood  with  the  crowd 
and  watched  two  fine  lads  go  up  the  gangplank,  each 
carrying  a  red  handkerchief  containing  his  worldly 
goods.  As  the  good  ship  moved  away  we  lifted  a  wild 
wail  of  woe  that  drowned  the  sobbing  of  the  waves. 
Everybody  cried — I  wept,  too — and  as  the  great,  black 
ship  became  but  a  speck  on  the  Western  horizon  we 
embraced  each  other  in  frenzied  grief. 
There  is  beauty  in  Ireland — physical  beauty  of  so  rare 
and  radiant  a  type  that  it  makes  the  heart  of  an  artist 
ache  to  think  that  it  can  not  endure.  On  country  roads, 
at  fair  time,  the  traveler  will  see  barefoot  girls  who  are 
women,  and  just  suspecting  it,  who  have  cheeks  like 
ripe  pippins;  laughing  eyes  with  long,  dark,  wicked 
lashes;  teeth  like  ivory;  necks  of  perfect  poise;  and 
waists  that,  never  having  known  a  corset,  are  pure 
Greek  3$  33 

Of  course,  these  girls  are  aware  that  we  admire  them — 
how  could  they  help  it?  They  carry  big  baskets  on 
either  shapely  arm,  bundles  balanced  on  their  heads, 
and  we,  suddenly  grown  tired,  sit  on  the  bankside  as 
they  pass  by,  and  feign  indifference  to  their  charms. 
274 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


Once  safely  past,  we  admiringly  examine  their  tracks 
in  the  soft  mud  (for  there  has  been  a  shower  during  the 
night),  and  we  vow  that  such  footprints  were  never 
before  left  upon  the  sands  of  time. 
The  typical  young  woman  in  Ireland  is  Juno  before  she 
was  married;  the  old  woman  is  Sycorax  after  Caliban 
was  weaned.  Wrinkled,  toothless,  yellow  old  hags  are 
seen  sitting  by  the  roadside,  rocking  back  and  forth, 
crooning  a  song  that  is  mate  to  the  chant  of  the  witches 
in  "  Macbeth  "  when  they  brew  the  hellbroth. 
See  that  wizened,  scarred  and  cruel  old  face — how  it 
speaks  of  a  seared  and  bitter  heart!  so  dull  yet  so  alert, 
so  changeful  yet  so  impassive,  so  immobile  yet  so  cun- 
ning— a  paradox  in  wrinkles,  where  half-stifled  desper- 
ation has  clawed  at  the  soul  until  it  has  fled,  and  only 
dead  indifference  or  greedy  expectation  is  left  to  tell  the 
tragic  tale. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  charity,  kind  gentlemen, 
charity!  "  and  the  old  crone  stretches  forth  a  long, 
bony  claw.  Should  you  pass  on  she  calls  down  curses  on 
your  head.  If  you  are  wise,  you  go  back  and  fling  her  a 
copper  to  stop  the  cold  streaks  that  are  shooting  up 
your  spine.  And  these  old  women  were  the  most  trying 
sights  I  saw  in  Ireland. 

"  Pshaw!  "  said  a  friend  of  mine  when  I  told  him  this; 
"  these  old  creatures  are  actors,  and  if  you  would  sit 
down  and  talk  to  them,  as  I  have  done,  they  will  laugh 
and  joke,  and  tell  you  of  sons  in  America  who  are 

275 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


policemen,  and  then  they  will  fill  black  '  dhudeens  '  out 
of  your  tobacco  and  ask  if  you  know  Mike  McGuire 
who  lives  in  She-ka-gy." 

The  last  trace  of  comeliness  has  long  left  the  faces  of 
these  repulsive  beggars,  but  there  is  a  type  of  feminine 
beauty  that  comes  with  years.  It  is  found  only  where 
intellect  and  affection  keep  step  with  spiritual  desire; 
and  in  Ireland,  where  it  is  often  a  crime  to  think,  where 
superstition  stalks,  and  avarice  rules,  and  hunger 
crouches,  it  is  very,  very  rare. 

But  I  met  one  woman  in  the  Emerald  Isle  whose  hair 
was  snow-white,  and  whose  face  seemed  to  beam  a 
benediction.  It  was  a  countenance  refined  by  sorrow, 
purified  by  aspiration,  made  peaceful  by  right  intellec- 
tual employment,  strong  through  self-reliance,  and 
gentle  by  an  earnest  faith  in  things  unseen.  It  proved 
the  possible  33  33 

When  the  nations  are  disarmed,  Ireland  will  take  first 
place,  for  in  fistiana  she  is  supreme. 
James  Russell  Lowell  once  said  that  where  the  "  code 
duello  "  exists,  men  lift  their  hats  to  ladies,  and  say 
"  Excuse  me  "  and  "If  you  please."  And  if  Lowell  was 
so  bold  as  to  say  a  good  word  for  the  gentlemen  who 
hold  themselves  "  personally  responsible,"  I  may  ven- 
ture the  remark  that  men  who  strike  from  the  shoulder 
are  almost  universally  polite  to  strangers. 
A  woman  can  do  Ireland  afoot  and  alone  with  perfect 
safety.  Everywhere  one  finds  courtesy,  kindness  and 
276 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


bubbling  good-cheer.  <I  Nineteen-twentieths  of  all  law- 
lessness in  Ireland  during  the  past  two  hundred  years 
has  been  directed  against  the  landlord's  agent.  This  is  a 
very  Irish-like  proceeding — to  punish  the  agent  for  the 
sins  of  the  principal.  When  the  landlord  himself  comes 
over  from  England  he  affects  a  fatherly  interest  in 
"  his  people."  He  gives  out  presents  and  cheap  favors, 
and  the  people  treat  him  with  humble  deference.  When 
the  landlord's  agent  goes  to  America  he  gets  a  place  as 
first  mate  on  a  Mississippi  River  Steamboat ;  and  before 
the  War  he  was  in  demand  in  the  South  as  overseer. 
He  it  is  who  has  taught  the  "  byes  "  the  villainy  that 
they  execute;  and  it  sometimes  goes  hard,  for  they  better 
the  instruction. 

But  there  is  one  other  character  that  the  boys  occa- 
sionally look  after  in  Ireland,  and  that  is  the  *'  Squire." 
He  is  a  merry  wight  in  tight  breeches,  red  coat,  and  a 
number-six  hat.  He  has  yellow  side- whiskers  and  'unts 
to  'ounds,  riding  over  the  wheatfields  of  honest  men. 
The  genuine  landlord  lives  in  London;  the  squire  would 
like  to  but  can  not  afford  it.  Of  course,  there  are  squires 
and  squires,  but  the  kind  I  have  in  mind  is  an  Irishman 
who  tries  to  pass  for  an  Englishman.  He  is  that  curious 
thing— a  man  without  a  country. 

There  is  a  theory  to  the  effect  that  the  Universal  Mother 
in  giving  out  happiness  bestows  on  each  and  all  an 
equal  portion — that  the  beggar  trudging  along  the 
stony  road  is  as  happy  as  the  king  who  rides  by  in  his 

277 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


carriage.  This  is  a  very  old  belief,  and  it  has  been  held 
by  many  learned  men.  From  the  time  I  first  heard  it, 
it  appealed  to  me  as  truth. 

Yet  recently  my  faith  has  been  shaken;  for  not  long 
ago  in  New  York  I  climbed  the  marble  steps  of  a 
splendid  mansion  and  was  admitted  by  a  servant  in 
livery  who  carried  my  card  on  a  silver  tray  to  his 
master.  This  master  had  a  son  in  the  "Keeley  Institute," 
a  daughter  in  her  grave,  and  a  wife  who  shrank  from  his 
presence.  His  heart  was  as  lonely  as  a  winter  night  at 
sea.  Fate  had  sent  him  a  coachman,  a  butler,  a  gardener 
and  a  footman,  but  she  took  his  happiness  and  passed 
it  through  a  hole  in  the  thatch  of  a  mud-plastered 
cottage  in  Ireland,  where,  each  night,  six  rosy  children 
soundly  slept  in  one  straw  bed. 

In  that  cottage  I  stayed  two  days.  There  was  a  stone 
floor  and  bare,  whitewashed  walls;  but  there  was  a 
rosebush  climbing  over  the  door,  and  within  health  and 
sunny  temper  that  made  mirth  with  a  meal  of  herbs, 
and  a  tenderness  that  touched  to  poetry  the  prose  of 
daily  duties. 

But  it  is  well  to  bear  in  mind  that  an  Irishman  in 
America  and  an  Irishman  in  Ireland  are  not  necessarily 
the  same  thing.  Often  the  first  effect  of  a  higher  civiliza- 
tion is  degeneration.  Just  as  the  Chinaman  quickly 
learns  big  swear- words,  and  the  Indian  takes  to  drink, 
and  certain  young  men  on  first  reading  Emerson's 
essay  on  "  Self-Reliance  "  go  about  with  a  chip  on  their 
278 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


shoulders,  so  sometimes  does  the  first  full  breath  of 
freedom's  air  develop  the  worst  in  Paddy  instead  of  the 
best  53  53 

As  one  tramps  through  Ireland  and  makes  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  blue-eyed  "  broth  of  a  bye,"  who  weighs 
one  hundred  and  ninety,  and  measures  forty-four 
inches  around  the  chest,  he  catches  glimpses  of  noble 
traits  and  hints  of  mystic  possibilities.  There  are  actions 
that  look  like  rudiments  of  greatness  gone,  and  you 
think  of  the  days  when  Olympian  games  were  played, 
and  finger  meanwhile  the  silver  in  your  pocket  and 
inwardly  place  it  on  this  twenty-year-old,  pink-faced, 
six-foot  "  boy  "  that  stands  before  you. 
In  Ireland  there  are  no  forests,  but  in  the  peat-bogs  are 
found  remains  of  mighty  trees  that  once  lifted  their 
outstretched  branches  to  the  sun.  Are  these  remains  of 
stately  forests  symbols  of  a  race  of  men  that,  too,  have 
passed  away? 

In  any  wayside  village  of  Leinster  you  can  pick  you  a 
model  for  an  Apollo.  He  is  in  rags,  is  this  giant,  and 
can  not  read,  but  he  can  dance  and  sing  and  fight.  He 
has  an  eye  for  color,  an  ear  for  music,  a  taste  for  rhyme, 
a  love  of  novelty  and  a  thirst  for  fun.  And  withal  he  has 
blundering  sympathy  and  a  pity  whose  tears  are  near  the 
surface  53  53 

Now,  will  this  fine  savage  be  a  victim  of  arrested 
development,  and  sink  gradually  through  weight  of  years 
into  mere  animal  stupidity  and  sodden  superstition? 

279 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


The  chances  are  that  this  is  just  what  he  will  do, 
and  that  at  twenty  he  will  be  in  his  intellectual  zenith. 
Summer  does  not  fulfil  the  promise  of  Spring. 
But  as  occasionally  there  is  one  of  those  beautiful, 
glowing  Irish  girls  who  leaves  footsteps  that  endure  (in 
bettered  lives),  instead  of  merely  transient  tracks  in 
mud,  so  there  has  been  a  Burke,  a  Wellington,  an 
O'Connell,  a  Sheridan,  a  Tom  Moore  and  an  Oliver 
Goldsmith  53  53 


280 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


HILE  Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman,  Swift  was 
an  Englishman  who  chanced  to  be  born  of 
Irish  parents  in  Dublin.  In  comparing  these 
men  Thackeray  says:  "  I  think  I  would  rather 
have  had  a  cold  potato  and  a  friendly  word  from  Gold- 
smith than  to  have  been  beholden  to  the  Dean  for  a 
guinea  and  a  dinner.  No;  the  Dean  was  not  an  Irishman, 
for  no  Irishman  ever  gave  but  with  a  kind  word  and  a 
kind  heart." 

Charles  Goldsmith  was  a  clergyman,  passing  rich  on 
forty  pounds  a  year.  He  had  a  nice  little  family  of  eight 
children,  and  what  became  of  the  seven  who  went  not 
astray  I  do  not  know.  But  the  smallest  and  homeliest 
one  of  the  brood  became  the  best-loved  man  in  London. 
These  sickly  boys  who  have  been  educated  only  because 
they  were  too  weak  to  work — what  a  record  their  lives 
make!  53  53 

Little  Oliver  had  a  pug-nose  and  bandy  legs,  and  fists 
not  big  enough  to  fight,  but  he  had  a  large  head,  and 
because  he  was  absent-minded,  lots  of  folks  thought 
him  dull  and  stupid,  and  others  were  sure  he  was  very 
bad.  In  fact,  let  us  admit  it,  he  did  steal  apples  and 
rifle  birds'  nests,  and  on  "  the  straggling  fence  that 
skirts  the  way,"  he  drew  pictures  of  Paddy  Byrne,  the 
schoolmaster,  who  amazed  the  rustics  by  the  amount  of 
knowledge  he  carried  in  one  small  head.  But  Paddy 
Byrne  did  not  love  art  for  art's  sake,  so  he  applied  the 
ferule  vigorously  to  little  Goldsmith's  anatomy,  with  a 

281 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


hope  of  diverting  the  lad's  inclinations  from  art  to 
arithmetic.  I  do  not  think  the  plan  was  very  successful, 
for  the  pockmarked  youngster  was  often  adorned  with 
the  dunce-cap. 

"  And,  Sir,"  said  Doctor  Johnson,  many  years  after, 
"  it  must  have  been  very  becoming.' 
It  seems  that  Paddy  Byrne  "  boarded  round,"  and 
part  of  the  time  was  under  the  roof  of  the  rectory.  Now 
we  all  know  that  schoolmasters  are  dual  creatures,  and 
that  once  away  from  the  schoolyard,  and  having  laid 
aside  the  robe  of  office,  are  often  good,  honest,  simple 
folks.  In  his  official  capacity  Paddy  Byrne  made  things 
very  uncomfortable  for  the  pug-nosed  little  boy,  but, 
like  the  true  Irishman  that  he  was,  when  he  got  away 
from  the  schoolhouse  he  was  sorry  for  it.  Whether 
dignity  is  the  mask  we  wear  to  hide  ignorance,  I  am  not 
sure,  yet  when  Paddy  Byrne  was  the  schoolmaster  he 
was  a  man  severe  and  stern  to  view;  but  when  he  was 
plain  Paddy  Byrne  he  was  a  first-rate  good  fellow. 
Evenings  he  would  hold  little  Oliver  on  his  knee,  and 
instead  of  helping  him  in  his  lessons  would  tell  him  tales 
of  robbers,  pirates,  smugglers — everything  and  any- 
thing in  fact  that  boys  like:  stories  of  fairies,  goblins, 
ghosts;  lion-hunts  and  tiger-killing  in  which  the 
redoubtable  Paddy  was  supposed  to  have  taken  a  chief 
part.  The  schoolmaster  had  been  a  soldier  and  a  sailor. 
He  had  been  in  many  lands,  and  when  he  related  his 
adventures,  no  doubt  he  often  mistook  imagination 
282 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


for  memory.  But  the  stories  had  the  effect  of  choking 
the  desire  in  Oliver  for  useful  knowledge,  and  gave 
instead  a  thirst  for  wandering  and  adventure. 
Byrne  also  had  a  taste  for  poetry,  and  taught  the  lad  to 
scribble  rhymes.  Very  proud  was  the  boy's  mother,  and 
very  carefully  did  she  preserve  these  foolish  lines. 
All  this  was  in  the  village  of  Lissoy,  County  Westmeath; 
yet  if  you  look  on  the  map  you  will  look  in  vain  for 
Lissoy.  But  six  miles  northeast  from  Athlone  and  three 
miles  from  Ballymahon  is  the  village  of  Auburn. 
When  Goldsmith  was  a  boy  Lissoy  was: 

"  Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain, 

Where  smiling  Spring  the  earliest  visits  paid, 

And  parting  Summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed — 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please — 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene; 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church,  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made: 

How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

283 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


And  all  the  village  train  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree — 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round." 

In  America,  when  a  "  city  "  is  to  be  started,  the  first 
thing  is  to  divide  up  the  land  into  town-lots  and  then 
sell  these  lots  to  whoever  will  buy.  This  is  a  very  modern 
scheme.  But  in  Ireland  whole  villages  belong  to  one 
man,  and  every  one  in  the  place  pays  tribute.  Then 
villages  are  passed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
and  sometimes  sold  outright,  but  there  is  no  wish  to 
dispose  of  corner  lots.  For  when  a  man  lives  in  your 
house  and  you  can  put  him  out  at  any  time,  he  is,  of 
course,  much  more  likely  to  be  civil  than  if  he  owns 
the  place  33  33 

But  it  has  happened  many  times  that  the  inhabitants 
of  Irish  villages  have  all  packed  up  and  deserted  the 
place,  leaving  no  one  but  the  village  squire  and  that  nice 
man,  the  landlord's  agent.  The  cottages  then  are  turned 
into  sheep-pens  or  hay-barns.  They  may  be  pulled  down, 
or,  if  they  are  left  standing,  the  weather  looks  after  that. 
And  these  are  common  sights  to  the  tourist. 
Now  the  landlord,  who  owned  every  rood  of  the  village 
of  Lissoy,  lived  in  London.  He  lived  well.  He  gambled  a 
little,  and  as  the  cards  did  not  run  his  way  he  got  into 
284 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


debt.  So  he  wrote  to  his  agent  in  Lissoy  to  raise  the 
rents.  He  did  so,  threatened,  applied  the  screws,  and — 
the  inhabitants  packed  up  and  let  the  landlord  have 
his  village  all  to  himself.  Let  Goldsmith  tell: 

"Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn: 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green; 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  overtops  the  moldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land." 

A  titled  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Napier  was  the  owner 
of  the  estate  at  that  time,  and  as  his  tenantry  had  left, 
he  in  wrath  pulled  down  their  rows  of  pretty  white 
cottages,  demolished  the  schoolhouse,  blew  up  the  mill, 
and  took  all  the  material  and  built  a  splendid  mansion 
on  the  hillside. 

The  cards  had  evidently  turned  in  his  direction,  but 

285 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


anyway,  he  owned  several  other  villages,  so  although  he 
toiled  not  neither  did  he  spin,  yet  he  was  well  clothed 
and  always  fed.  But  my  lord  Napier  was  not  immortal, 
for  he  died,  and  was  buried;  and  over  his  grave  they 
erected  a  monument,  and  on  it  are  these  words:  "  He 
was  the  friend  of  the  oppressed." 

The  records  of  literature,  so  far  as  I  know,  show  no  such 
moving  force  in  a  simple  poem  as  the  re-birth  of  the 
village  of  Auburn.  No  man  can  live  in  a  village  and 
illuminate  it  by  his  genius.  His  fellow  townsmen  and 
neighbors  are  not  to  be  influenced  by  his  eloquence 
except  in  a  very  limited  way.  His  presence  creates  an 
opposition,  for  the  "  personal  touch  "  repels  as  well  as 
attracts.  Dying,  seven  cities  may  contend  for  the  honor 
of  his  birthplace;  or  after  his  departure,  knowledge  of 
his  fame  may  travel  back  across  the  scenes  that  he  has 
known,  and  move  to  better  things. 
The  years  went  by  and  the  Napier  estate  got  into  a  bad 
way  and  was  sold.  Captain  Hogan  became  the  owner 
of  the  site  of  the  village  of  Lissoy.  Now,  Captain  Hogan 
was  a  poet  in  feeling,  and  he  set  about  to  replace  the 
village  that  Goldsmith  had  loved  and  immortalized. 
He  adopted  the  name  that  Goldsmith  supplied,  and 
Auburn  it  is  even  unto  this  day. 

In  the  village-green  is  the  original  spreading  hawthorn- 
tree,  all  enclosed  in  a  stone  wall  to  preserve  it.  And  on 
the  wall  is  a  sign  requesting  you  not  to  break  off 
branches  3$  5$ 
286 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


Around  the  trees  are  seats.  I  sat  there  one  evening  with 
"  talking  age  "  and  **  whispering  lovers."  The  mirth 
that  night  was  of  a  quiet  sort,  and  I  listened  to  an  old 
man  who  recited  all  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  to  the 
little  group  that  was  present.  It  cost  me  sixpence,  but 
was  cheap  for  the  money,  for  the  brogue  was  very 
choice.  I  was  the  only  stranger  present,  and  quickly 
guessed  that  the  entertainment  was  for  my  sole  benefit, 
as  I  saw  that  I  was  being  furtively  watched  to  see  how 
I  took  my  medicine. 

A  young  fellow  sitting  near  me  offered  a  little  Gold- 
smith information,  then  a  woman  on  the  other  side  did 
the  same,  and  the  old  man  who  had  recited  suggested 
that  we  go  over  and  see  the  alehouse  "  where  the  justly 
celebhrated  Docther  Goldsmith  so  often  played  his 
harp  so  feelin'ly."  So  we  adjourned  to  The  Three  Jolly 
Pigeons — a  dozen  of  us,  including  the  lovers,  whom  I 
personally  invited. 

"  And  did  Oliver  Goldsmith  really  play  his  harp  in  this 
very  room?  "  I  asked. 

"  Aye,  indade  he  did,  yer  honor,  an*  ef  ye  don't  belave 
it,  ye  kin  sit  in  the  same  chair  that  was  his." 
So  they  led  me  to  the  big  chair  that  stood  on  a  little 
raised  platform,  and  I  sat  in  the  great  oaken  seat  which 
was  surely  made  before  Goldsmith  was  born.  Then  we 
all  took  ale  (at  my  expense).  The  lovers  sat  in  one 
corner,  drinking  from  one  glass,  and  very  particular  to 
drink  from  the  same  side,  and  giggling  to  themselves. 

287 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


The  old  man  wanted  to  again  recite  "  The  Deserted  Vil- 
lage," but  was  forcibly  restrained.  And  instead,  by 
invitation  of  himself,  the  landlord  sang  a  song  composed 
by  Goldsmith,  but  which  I  have  failed  to  find  in  Gold- 
smith's works,  entitled,  "When  Ireland  Is  Free."  There 
were  thirteen  stanzas  in  this  song,  and  a  chorus  and 
refrain  in  which  the  words  of  the  title  are  repeated. 
After  each  stanza  we  all  came  in  strong  on  the  chorus, 
keeping  time  by  tapping  our  glasses  on  the  tables. 
Then  we  all  drank  perdition  to  English  landlords,  had 
our  glasses  refilled,  and  I  was  called  on  for  a  speech.  I 
responded  in  a  few  words  that  were  loudly  cheered,  and 
the  very  good  health  of  "  the  'Merican  Nobleman  " 
was  drunk  with  much  fervor. 
The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  is  arranged  exactly  to  the  letter : 

'  The  whitewashed  walls,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose." 

And  behold,  there  on  the  wall  behind  the  big  oak  chair 
are  "  the  twelve  good  rules." 

The  next  morning  I  saw  the  modest  mansion  of  the 
village  preacher  "  whose  house  was  known  to  all  the 
vagrant  train,"  then  the  little  stone  church,  and  beyond 
I  came  to  the  blossoming  furze,  unprofitably  gay,  where 
288 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


the  village  master  taught  his  little  school.  A  bright 
young  woman  teaches  there  now,  and  it  is  certain  that 
she  can  write  and  cipher  too,  for  I  saw  "  sums  "  on  the 
blackboard,  and  I  also  saw  where  she  had  written  some 
very  pretty  mottoes  on  the  wall  with  colored  chalk,  a 
thing  I  am  sure  that  Paddy  Bryne  never  thought  to  do. 
*I  Below  the  schoolhouse  is  a  pretty  little  stream  that 
dances  over  pebbles  and  untiringly  turns  the  wheel  in 
the  old  mill;  and  not  far  away  I  saw  the  round  top  of 
Knockrue  hill,  where  Goldsmith  said  he  would  rather 
sit  with  a  book  in  hand  than  mingle  with  the  throng  at 
the  court  of  royalty. 

Goldsmith's  verse  is  all  clean,  sweet  and  wholesome,  and 
I  do  not  wonder  that  he  was  everywhere  a  f avorite>with 
women.  This  was  true  in  his  very  babyhood.  For  he  was 
the  pet  of  several  good  old  dames,  one  of  whom  taught 
him  to  count  by  using  cards  as  object-lessons  '  He 
proudly  said  that  when  he  was  three  years  of  age  he 
could  pick  out  the  "  ten-spot."  This  love  of  pasteboard 
was  not  exactly  an  advantage,  for  when  he  was  sixteen 
he  went  to  Dublin  to  attend  college,  and  carried  fifty 
pounds  and  a  deck  of  cards  in  his  pocket.  The  first  day 
in  Dublin  he  met  a  man  who  thought  he  knew  more 
about  cards  than  Oliver  did — and  the  man  did:  in  three 
days  Oliver  arrived  back  in  Sweet  Auburn  penniless, 
but  wonderfully  glad  to  get  home  and  everybody  glad 
to  see  him.  '*  It  seemed  as  if  I  'd  been  away  a  year,"  he 
said  53  33 

289 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


But  in  a  few  weeks  he  started  out  with  no  baggage  but  a 
harp,  and  he  played  in  the  villages  and  the  inns,  and 
sometimes  at  the  homes  of  the  rich.  And  his  melodies 
won  all  hearts. 

The  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  says:  "  You  come  hot 
and  tired  from  the  day's  battle,  and  this  sweet  minstrel 
sings  to  you.  Who  could  harm  the  kind  vagrant  harper? 
Whom  did  he  ever  hurt?  He  carries  no  weapon — only 
the  harp  on  which  he  plays  to  you ;  and  with  which  he 
delights  great  and  humble,  young  and  old,  the  captains 
in  the  tent  or  the  soldiers  round  the  fire,  or  the  women 
and  children  in  the  villages  at  whose  porches  he  stops 
and  sings  his  simple  songs  of  love  and  beauty." 


290 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


HEN  Goldsmith  arrived  in  London  in  Seven- 
teen Hundred  Fifty-six,  he  was  ragged,  penni- 
less, friendless  and  forlorn.  In  the  country  he 
could  always  make  his  way,  but  the  city  to 
him  was  new  and  strange.  For  several  days  he  begged  a 
crust  here  and  there,  sleeping  in  the  doorways  at  night 
and  dreaming  of  the  flowery  wealth  of  gentle  Lissoy, 
where  even  the  poorest  had  enough  to  eat  and  a  warm 
place  to  huddle  when  the  sun  went  down. 
He  at  length  found  work  as  clerk  or  porter  in  a  chemist's 
shop,  where  he  remained  until  he  got  money  enough  to 
buy  a  velvet  coat  and  a  ruffled  shirt,  and  then  he  moved 
to  the  Bankside  and  hung  out  a  surgeon's  sign.  The 
neighbors  thought  the  little  doctor  funny,  and  the 
women  would  call  to  him  out  of  the  second-story 
window  that  it  was  a  fine  day,  but  when  they  were  ill 
they  sent  for  some  one  else  to  attend  them. 
Goldsmith  was  twenty-eight,  and  the  thought  that  he 
could  make  a  living  with  his  pen  had  never  come  to 
him.  Yet  he  loved  books,  and  he  would  loiter  about 
bookshops,  pricing  first  editions,  and  talking  poetry  to 
the  patrons.  He  chanced  in  this  way  to  meet  Samuel 
Richardson,  who,  because  he  wrote  the  first  English 
romance,  has  earned  the  title  of  Father  of  Lies.  In  order 
to  get  a  very  necessary  loaf  of  bread,  Doctor  Goldsmith 
asked  Richardson  to  let  him  read  proof.  So  Richardson 
gave  him  employment,  and  in  correcting  proof  the 
discovery  was  made  that  the  Irish  doctor  could  turn 

291 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


a  sentence,  too.  fl  He  became  affected  with  literary 
eczema,  and  wrote  a  tragedy  which  he  read  to  Richard- 
son and  a  few  assembled  friends.  They  voted  it  "  vile, 
demnition  vile."  But  one  man  thought  it  was  n't  so 
bad  as  it  might  be,  and  this  man  found  a  market  for 
some  of  the  little  doctor's  book-reviews,  but  the  tragedy 
was  fed  to  the  fireplace.  With  the  money  for  his  book- 
reviews  the  doctor  bought  goose-quills  and  ink,  and 
inspiration  in  bottles. 

Grub  Street  dropped  in,  shabby,  seedy,  empty  of 
pocket  but  full  of  hope,  and  little  suppers  were  given  in 
dingy  coffeehouses  where  success  to  English  letters  was 
drunk  33  33 

Then  we  find  Goldsmith  making  a  bold  stand  for 
reform.  He  hired  out  to  write  magazine  articles  by  the 
day;  going  to  work  in  the  morning  when  the  bell  rang, 
an  hour  off  at  noon,  and  then  at  it  again  until  nightfall. 
Mr.  Griffiths,  publisher  of  the  "  Monthly  Review,"  was 
his  employer.  And  in  order  to  hold  his  newly  captured 
prize,  the  publisher  boarded  the  pockmarked  Irishman 
in  his  own  house.  Mrs.  Griffiths  looked  after  him  closely, 
spurring  him  on  when  he  lagged,  correcting  his  copy, 
striking  out  such  portions  as  showed  too  much  genius 
and  inserting  a  word  here  and  there  in  order  to  make  a 
purely  neutral  decoction,  which  it  seems  is  what  maga- 
zine readers  have  always  desired. 

Occasionally  these  articles  were  duly  fathered  by  great 
men,  as  this  gave  them  the  required  specific  gravity  33 
292 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


It  is  said  that  even  in  our  day  there  are  editors  who 
employ  convict  labor  in  this  way.  But  I  am  sure  that 
this  is  not  so,  for  we  live  in  an  age  of  competition,  and 
it  is  just  as  cheap  to  hire  the  great  men  to  supply 
twaddle  direct  as  it  is  to  employ  foreign  paupers  to 
turn  it  out  with  the  extra  expense  of  elderly  women  to 
revise  3S  33 

After  working  in  the  Griffith  literary  mill  for  five 
months,  Goldsmith  scaled  the  barricade  one  dark  night, 
leaving  behind,  pasted  on  the  wall,  a  ballad  not  only  to 
Mrs.  Griffiths'  eyebrow,  but  to  her  wig  as  well. 
Soon  after  this,  when  Goldsmith  was  thirty  years  of 
age,  his  first  book,  "Enquiry  Into  the  Present  State  of 
Polite  Learning  in  Europe,"  was  published.  It  brought 
him  a  little  money  and  tuppence  worth  of  fame,  so  he 
took  better  lodgings,  in  Green  Arbor  Court,  proposing 
to  do  great  things. 

Half  a  century  after  the  death  of  Goldsmith,  Irving 
visited  Green  Arbor  Court: 

"  At  length  we  came  upon  Fleet  Market,  and  traversing 
it,  turned  up  a  narrow  street  to  the  bottom  of  a  long, 
steep  flight  of  stone  steps  called  Breakneck  Stairs.  These 
led  to  Green  Arbor  Court,  and  down  them  Goldsmith 
many  a  time  risked  his  neck.  When  we  entered  the 
Court,  I  could  not  but  smile  to  think  in  what  out-of-the- 
way  corners  Genius  produces  her  bantlings.  The  Court 
I  found  to  be  a  small  square  surrounded  by  tall, 
miserable  houses,  with  old  garments  and  frippery 

293 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


fluttering  from  every  window.  It  appeared  to  be  a 
region  of  washerwomen,  and  lines  were  stretched  about 
the  square  on  which  clothes  were  dangling  to  dry.  Poor 
Goldsmith!  What  a  time  he  must  have  had  of  it,  with 
his  quiet  disposition  and  nervous  habits,  penned  up  in 
this  den  of  noise  and  vulgarity." 

One  can  imagine  Goldsmith  running  the  whole  gamut 
of  possible  jokes  on  Breakneck  Stairs,  and  Green  Arbor 
Court,  which,  by  the  way,  was  never  green  and  where 
there  was  no  arbor. 

"  I  Ve  been  admitted  to  Court,  gentlemen!  "  said  Gold- 
smith proudly,  one  day  at  The  Mitre  Tavern. 
"  Ah,  yes,  Doctor,  we  know — Green  Arbor  Court!  and 
any  man  who  has  climbed  Breakneck  Stairs  has  surely 
achieved,"  said  Tom  Davies. 

In  Seventeen  Hundred  Sixty,  Goldsmith  moved  to 
Number  Six  Wine-Office  Court,  where  he  wrote  the 
"  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  Boswell  reports  Doctor  John- 
son's account  of  visiting  him  there: 
"  I  received,  one  morning,  a  message  from  poor  Gold- 
smith that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not 
in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come 
to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea  and 
promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I  accordingly  went 
to  him  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his 
landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was 
in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had  already 
changed  my  guinea,  and  had  half  a  bottle  of  Madeira 
294 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork  in  the  bottle, 
desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of 
the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then 
told  me  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he 
produced  for  me.  I  looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merits; 
told  the  landlady  I  would  soon  return,  and  having  gone 
to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Gold- 
smith^ the  money,  and  he  discharged  the  rent,  not 
without  rating  his  landlady  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 
<I  For  the  play  of  "  The  Good-Natured  Man  "  Gold- 
smith received  five  hundred  pounds.  And  he  immedi- 
iately  expended  four  hundred  in  mahogany  furniture, 
easy-chairs,  lace  curtains  and  Wilton  carpets.  Then  he 
called  in  his  friends.  This  was  at  Number  Two  Brick 
Court,  Middle  Temple.  Blackstone  had  chambers  just 
below,  and  was  working  as  hard  over  his  Commentaries 
as  many  a  lawyer's  clerk  has  done  since.  He  complained 
of  the  abominable  noise  and  racket  of  "  those  fellows 
upstairs,"  but  was  asked  to  come  in  and  listen  to  wit 
while  he  had  the  chance. 

I  believe  the  bailiffs  eventually  captured  the  mahogany 
furniture,  but  Goldsmith  held  the  quarters.  They  are 
today  in  good  repair,  and  the  people  who  occupy  the 
house  are  very  courteous,  and  obligingly  show  the  rooms 
to  the  curious.  No  attempt  at  a  museum  is  made,  but 
there  are  to  be  seen  various  articles  which  belonged  to 
Goldsmith  and  a  collection  of  portraits  that  are 
interesting  3&  S& 

295 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


When  "The  Traveler"  was  published  Goldsmith's 
fame  was  made  secure.  As  long  as  he  wrote  plays, 
reviews,  history  and  criticism  he  was  working  for  hire. 
People  said  it  was  "  clever,"  "  brilliant,"  and  all  that, 
but  their  hearts  were  not  won  until  the  poet  had  poured 
out  his  soul  to  his  brother  in  that  gentlest  of  all  sweet 
rhymes.  I  pity  the  man  who  can  read  the  opening  lines  of 
"  The  Traveler  "  without  a  misty  something  coming  over 
his  vision : 

'  Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  I  see, 
My  heart  un traveled  fondly  turns  to  thee; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain." 

This  is  the  earliest  English  poem  which  I  can  recall 
that  makes  use  of  our  American  Indian  names: 

'  Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound." 

Indeed,  we  came  near  having  Goldsmith  for  an  adopted 
citizen.  According  to  his  own  report  he  once  secured 
passage  to  Boston,  and  after  carrying  his  baggage 
aboard  the  ship  he  went  back  to  town  to  say  a  last 
hurried  word  of  farewell  to  a  fair  lady,  and  when  he  got 
back  to  the  dock  the  ship  had  sailed  away  with  his 
luggage  5S  5$ 

His  earnest  wish  was  to  spend  his  last  days  in  Sweet 
Auburn. 
296 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


"  In  all  my  wand* rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  those  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  its  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw. 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last." 

But  he  never  saw  Ireland  after  he  left  it  in  Seventeen 
Hundred  Fifty-four.  He  died  in  London  in  Seventeen 
Hundred  Seventy-four,  aged  forty-six. 
On  the  plain  little  monument  in  Temple  Church  where 
he  was  buried  are  only  these  words: 

Here  Lies  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Hawkins  once  called  on  the  Earl  of  Northumberland 
and  found  Goldsmith  waiting  in  an  outer  room,  having 
come  in  response  to  an  invitation  from  the  nobleman. 
Hawkins,  having  finished  his  business,  waited  until 
Goldsmith  came  out,  as  he  had  a  curiosity  to  know  why 
the  Earl  had  sent  for  him. 

297 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


'  Well,"  said  Hawkins,  "  what  did  he  say  to  you  2  "  33 
"  His  lordship  told  me  that  he  had  read  "  The  Traveler," 
and  that  he  was  pleased  with  it,  and  that  inasmuch  as 
he  was  soon  to  be  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and 
knowing  I  was  an  Irishman,  asked  what  he  could 
do  for  me!  " 

"  And  what  did  you  tell  him?  "  inquired  the  eager 
Hawkins  33  33 

'  Why,  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  say,  but  that  I  was 
glad  he  liked  my  poem,  and — that  I  had  a  brother  in 

Ireland,  a  clergyman,  who  stood  in  need  of  help " 

^  "  Enough!  "  cried  Hawkins,  and  left  him. 

To  Hawkins  himself  are  we  indebted  for  the  incident, 

and  after  relating  it  Hawkins  adds: 

"  And  thus  did  this  idiot  in  the  affairs  of  the  world 

trifle  with  his  fortunes!  " 

Let  him  who  wishes  preach  a  sermon  on  this  story.  But 

there  you  have  it!  "A  brother  in  Ireland  who  needs 

help " 

The  brother  in  London,  the  brother  in  America,  the 
brother  in  Ireland  who  needs  help!  All  men  were  his 
brothers,  and  those  who  needed  help  were  first  in  his 
mind  33  33 

Dear  little  Doctor  Goldsmith,  you  were  not  a  hustler,  but 
when  I  get  to  the  Spirit- World,  I  '11  surely  hunt  you  up! 


298 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


It  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many 
simples,  extracted  from  many  objects,  and  indeed  the 
sundry  contemplation  of  my  travels,  in  which  my  often 
rumination  wraps  me  in  a  most  humorous  sadness. 

— As  You  Like  It 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


HAVE  on  several  occasions  been  to 
the  Shakespeare  country,  approach- 
ing it  from  different  directions, 
but  each  time  I  am  set  down  at 
Leamington.  Perhaps  this  is  by  some 
Act  of  Parliament — I  really  do  not 
know;  anyway,  I  have  ceased  to 
kick  against  the  pricks  and  now 
meekly  accept  my  fate. 

Leamington  seems  largely  under  subjection  to  that 
triumvirate  of  despots — the  Butler,  the  Coachman  and 
the  Gardener.  You  hear  the  jingle  of  keys,  the  flick  of 
the  whip  and  the  rattle  of  the  lawnmower;  and  a  cold, 
secret  fear  takes  possession  of  you — a  sort  of  half -frenzied 
impulse  to  flee,  before  smug  modernity  takes  you 
captive  and  whisks  you  off  to  play  tiddledywinks  or  to 
dance  the  racquet. 

But  the  tram  is  at  the  door — the  outside  fare  is  a  penny, 
inside  it 's  two — and  we  are  soon  safe,  for  we  have 
reached  the  point  where  the  Leam  and  the  Avon  meet  S3 
Warwick  is  worth  our  while.  For  here  we  see  scenes 
such  as  Shakespeare  saw,  and  our  delight  is  in  the 
things  that  his  eyes  beheld. 

At  the  foot  of  Mill  Street  are  the  ruins  of  the  old  Gothic 
bridge  that  leads  off  to  Banbury.  Oft  have  I  ridden  to 
Banbury  Cross  on  my  mother's  foot,  and  when  I  saw 

301 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


that  sign  and  pointing  finger  I  felt  like  leaving  all  and 
flying  thence.  Just  beyond  the  bridge,  settled  snugly  in 
a  forest  of  waving  branches,  we  see  storied  old  Warwick 
Castle,  with  Caesar's  Tower  lifting  itself  from  the 
mass  of  green. 

All  about  are  quaint  old  houses  and  shops,  with  red- 
tiled  roofs,  and  little  windows,  with  diamond  panes, 
hung  on  hinges,  where  maidens  fair  have  looked  down 
on  brave  men  in  coats  of  mail.  These  narrow,  stony 
streets  have  rung  with  the  clang  and  echo  of  hurrying 
hoofs ;  the  tramp  of  Royalist  and  Parliamentarian,  horse 
and  foot,  drum  and  banner;  the  stir  of  princely  visits, 
of  mail-coach,  market,  assize  and  kingly  court.  Col- 
brand,  armed  with  giant  club;  Sir  Guy ;  Richard  Neville, 
kingmaker,  and  his  barbaric  train,  all  trod  these  streets, 
watered  their  horses  in  this  river,  camped  on  yonder 
bank,  or  huddled  in  this  castle-yard.  And  again  they 
came  back  when  Will  Shakespeare,  a  youth  from  Strat- 
ford, eight  miles  away,  came  here  and  waved  his  magic 
wand  $3  53 

Warwick  Castle  is  probably  in  better  condition  now 
than  it  was  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.  But  practically 
it  is  the  same.  It  is  the  only  castle  in  England  where  the 
portcullis  is  lowered  at  ten  o'clock  every  night  and  raised 
in  the  morning  (if  the  coast  happens  to  be  clear)  to 
tap  of  drum. 

It  costs  a  shilling  to  visit  the  castle.  A  fine  old  soldier 
in  spotless  uniform,  with  waxed  white  moustache  and 
302 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


dangling  sword,  conducts  the  visitors.  He  imparts  full 
two  shillings'  worth  of  facts  as  we  go,  all  with  a  fierce 
roll  of  r's,  as  becomes  a  man  of  war. 
The  long  line  of  battlements,  the  massive  buttresses,  the 
angular  entrance  cut  through  solid  rock,  crooked, 
abrupt,  with  places  where  fighting  men  can  lie  in  am- 
bush, all  is  as  Shakespeare  knew  it. 
There  are  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  brought  by  Crusaders 
from  the  East,  and  the  screaming  peacocks  in  the  paved 
courtway ;  and  in  the  Great  Hall  are  to  be  seen  the  sword 
and  accouterments  of  the  fabled  Guy,  the  mace  of  the 
"  Kingmaker,"  the  helmet  of  Cromwell,  and  the  armor 
of  Lord  Brooke,  killed  at  Litchfield. 
And  that  Shakespeare  saw  these  things  there  is  no 
doubt.  But  he  saw  them  as  a  countryman  who  came  on 
certain  fete-days,  and  stared  with  open  mouth.  We 
know  this,  because  he  has  covered  all  with  the  glamour 
of  his  rich,  boyish  imagination  that  failed  to  perceive 
the  cruel  mockery  of  such  selfish  pageantry.  Had  his 
view  been  from  the  inside  he  would  not  have  made  his 
kings  noble  nor  his  princes  generous;  for  the  stress  of 
strife  would  have  stilled  his  laughter,  and  from  his  brain 
the  dazzling  pictures  would  have  fled.  Yet  his  fancies 
serve  us  better  than  the  facts. 

Shakespeare  shows  us  many  castles,  but  they  are 
always  different  views  of  Warwick  or  Kenilworth. 
When  he  pictures  Macbeth's  castle  he  has  Warwick  in 
his  inward  eye: 

303 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


"  This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat :  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 
This  guest  of  Summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here:  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Buttress,  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed,  and  procreant  cradle; 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed, 
The  air  is  delicate." 

Five  miles  from  Warwick  (ten,  if  you  believe  the  cab- 
drivers)  are  the  ruins  of  Kenilworth  Castle. 
In  Fifteen  Hundred  Seventy-five,  when  Shakespeare 
was  eleven  years  of  age,  Queen  Elizabeth  came  to 
Kenilworth.  Whether  her  ticket  was  by  way  of  Leam- 
ington I  do  not  know.  But  she  remained  from  July 
Ninth  to  July  Twenty-seventh,  and  there  were  great 
doings  'most  every  day,  to  which  the  yeomanry  were 
oft  invited.  John  Shakespeare  was  a  worthy  citizen  of 
Warwickshire,  and  it  is  very  probable  that  he  received 
an  invitation,  and  that  he  drove  over  with  Mary  Arden, 
his  wife,  sitting  on  the  front  seat  holding  the  baby,  and 
all  the  other  seven  children  sitting  on  the  straw  behind. 
And  we  may  be  sure  that  the  eldest  boy  in  that  brood 
never  forgot  the  day.  In  fact,  in  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream "  he  has  called  on  his  memory  tot  certain 
304 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


features  of  the  show.  Elizabeth  was  forty-one  years  old 
then,  but  apparently  very  attractive  and  glib  of  tongue. 
No  doubt  Kenilworth  was  stupendous  in  its  magnifi- 
cence, and  it  will  pay  you  to  take  down  from  its  shelf 
Sir  Walter's  novel  and  read  about  it.  But  today  it  is  all 
a  crumbling  heap;  ivy,  rooks  and  daws  hold  the  place 
in  fee,  each  pushing  hard  for  sole  possession. 
It  is  eight  miles  from  Warwick  to  Stratford  by  the  direct 
road,  but  ten  by  the  river.  I  have  walked  both  routes 
and  consider  the  latter  the  shorter. 
Two  miles  down  the  river  is  Barford,  and  a  mile  farther 
is  Wasperton,  with  its  quaint  old  stone  church.  It  is  a 
good  place  to  rest :  for  nothing  is  so  soothing  as  a  cool 
church  where  the  dim  light  streams  through  colored  win- 
dows, and  out  of  sight  somewhere  an  organ  softly  plays. 
Soon  after  leaving  the  church  a  rustic  swain  hailed  me 
and  asked  for  a  match.  The  pipe  and  the  Virginia  weed — 
they  mean  amity  the  world  over.  If  I  had  questions  to 
ask,  now  was  the  time !  So  I  asked,  and  Rusticus  informed 
me  that  Hampton  Lucy  was  only  a  mile  beyond  and  that 
Shakespeare  never  stole  deer  at  all;  so  I  hope  we  shall 
hear  no  more  of  that  libelous  accusation. 
"  But  did  Shakespeare  run  away?  "  I  demanded. 
"  Ave  coorse  he  deed,  sir;  'most  all  good  men  'ave  roon 
away  sometime!  " 

And  come  to  think  of  it  Rusticus  is  right. 
Most  great  men  have  at  some  time  departed  hastily 
without  leaving  orders  where  to  forward  their  mail. 

305 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


Indeed,  it  seems  necessary  that  a  man  should  have 
"  run  away  "  at  least  once,  in  order  afterward  to  attain 
eminence.  Moses,  Lot,  Tarquin,  Pericles,  Demosthenes, 
Saint  Paul,  Shakespeare,  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Gold- 
smith, Hugo — but  the  list  is  too  long  to  give. 
But  just  suppose  that  Shakespeare  had  not  run  away! 
And  to  whom  do  we  owe  it  that  he  did  leave — Justice 
Shallow  or  Ann  Hathaway,  or  both?  I  should  say  to 
Ann  first  and  His  Honor  second.  I  think  if  Shakespeare 
could  write  an  article  for  "  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal  " 
on  "  Women  Who  Have  Helped  Me,"  and  tell  the  whole 
truth  (as  no  man  ever  will  in  print),  he  would  put  Ann 
Hathaway  first. 

He  signed  a  bond  when  eighteen  years  old  agreeing  to 
marry  her;  she  was  twenty-six.  No  record  is  found  of 
the  marriage.  But  we  should  think  of  her  gratefully, 
for  no  doubt  it  was  she  who  started  the  lad  off  for 
London  53  53 

That 's  the  way  I  expressed  it  to  my  new-found  friend, 
and  he  agreed  with  me,  so  we  shook  hands  and  parted. 
*}  Charlcote  is  as  fair  as  a  dream  of  Paradise.  The  wind- 
ing Avon,  full  to  its  banks,  strays  lazily  through  rich 
fields  and  across  green  meadows,  past  the  bright  red- 
brick pile  of  Charlcote  Mansion.  The  river-bank  is 
lined  with  rushes,  and  in  one  place  I  saw  the  prongs  of 
antlers  shaking  the  elders.  I  sent  a  shrill  whistle  and  a 
stick  that  way,  and  out  ran  four  fine  deer  that  loped 
gracefully  across  the  turf.  The  sight  brought  my 
306 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


poacher  instincts  to  the  surface,  but  I  bottled  them,  and 
trudged  on  until  I  came  to  the  little  church  that  stands 
at  the  entrance  to  the  park. 

All  mansions,  castles  and  prisons  in  England  have 
chapels  or  churches  attached.  And  this  is  well,  for  in  the 
good  old  days  it  seemed  wise  to  keep  in  close  communi- 
cation with  the  other  world.  For  often,  on  short  notice, 
the  proud  scion  of  royalty  was  compelled  hastily  to 
pack  a  ghostly  valise  and  hie  him  hence  with  his  bat- 
tered soul;  or  if  he  did  not  go  himself  he  compelled 
others  to  do  so,  and  who  but  a  brute  would  kill  a  man 
without  benefit  of  the  clergy!  So  each  estate  hired  its 
priests  by  the  year,  just  as  men  with  a  taste  for  litigation 
hold  attorneys  in  constant  retainer. 
In  Charlcote  Church  is  a  memorial  to  Sir  Thomas  Lucy; 
and  there  is  a  glowing  epitaph  that  quite  upsets  any  of 
those  taunting  and  defaming  allusions  in  "  The  Merry 
Wives."  At  the  foot  of  the  monument  is  a  line  to  the 
effect  that  the  inscription  thereon  was  written  by  the 
only  one  in  possession  of  the  facts,  Sir  Thomas  himself  3& 
Several  epitaphs  in  the  churchyard  are  worthy  of  space 
in  your  commonplace  book,  but  the  lines  on  the  slab  to 
John  Gibbs  and  wife  struck  me  as  having  the  true  ring : 

"  Farewell,  proud,  vain,  false,  treacherous  world, 
We  have  seen  enough  of  thee: 
We  value  not  what  thou  canst  say  of  we." 

When  the  Charlcote  Mansion  was  built,  there  was  a 

307 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


housewarming,  and  Good  Queen  Bess  (who  was  not  so 
awful  good)  came  in  great  state;  so  we  see  that  she  had 
various  calling  acquaintances  in  these  parts.  But  we 
have  no  proof  that  she  ever  knew  that  any  such  person 
as  W.  Shakespeare  lived.  However,  she  came  to  Charl- 
cote  and  dined  on  venison,  and  what  a  pity  it  is  that  she 
and  Shakespeare  did  not  meet  in  London  afterward  and 
talk  it  over! 

Some  hasty  individual  has  put  forth  a  statement  to  the 
effect  that  poets  can  only  be  bred  in  a  mountainous 
country,  where  they  could  lift  up  their  eyes  to  the  hills. 
Rock  and  ravine,  beetling  crag,  singing  cascade,  and 
the  heights  where  the  lightning  plays  and  the  mists 
hover  are  certainly  good  timber  for  poetry — after  you 
have  caught  your  poet — but  Nature  eludes  all  formula. 
Again,  it  is  the  human  interest  that  adds  vitality  to 
art — they  reckon  ill  to  leave  man  out. 
Drayton  before  Shakespeare's  time  called  Warwick 
"  the  heart  of  England,"  and  the  heart  of  England  it  is 
today — rich,  luxuriant,  slow.  The  great  colonies  of 
rabbits  that  I  saw  at  Charlcote  seemed  too  fat  to  frolic, 
save  more  than  to  play  a  trick  or  two  on  the  hounds 
that  blinked  in  the  sun.  Down  toward  Stratford  there 
are  flat  islands  covered  with  sedge,  long  rows  of  weep- 
ing-willows, low  hazel,  hawthorn,  and  places  where 
"  Green  Grow  the  Rushes,  O."  Then,  if  the  farmer  leaves 
a  spot  untilled,  the  dogrose  pre-empts  the  place  and 
showers  its  petals  on  the  vagrant  winds.  Meadowsweet, 
308 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


forget-me-nots  and  wild  geranium  snuggle  themselves 
below  the  boughs  of  the  sturdy  yews. 
The  first  glimpse  we  get  of  Stratford  is  the  spire  of  Holy 
Trinity;  then  comes  the  tower  of  the  new  Memorial 
Theater,  which,  by  the  way,  is  exactly  like  the  city  hall 
at  Dead  Horse,  Colorado. 

Stratford  is  just  another  village  of  Niagara  Falls.  The 
same  shops,  the  same  guides,  the  same  hackmen — all 
are  there,  save  poor  Lo,  with  his  beadwork  and  sassafras. 
In  fact,  a  "  cabby  "  just  outside  of  New  Place  offered 
to  take  me  to  the  Whirlpool  and  the  Canada  side  for  a 
dollar.  At  least,  this  is  what  I  thought  he  said.  Of 
course,  it  is  barely  possible  that  I  was  daydreaming, 
but  I  think  the  facts  are  that  it  was  he  who  dozed,  and 
waking  suddenly  as  I  passed  gave  me  the  wrong  cue  3& 
There  is  a  Macbeth  livery-stable,  a  Falstaff  bakery,  and 
all  the  shops  and  stores  keep  Othello  this  and  Hamlet 
that.  I  saw  briarwood  pipes  with  Shakespeare's  face 
carved  on  the  bowl,  all  for  one-and-six;  feather  fans 
with  advice  to  the  players  printed  across  the  folds;  the 
"  Seven  Ages  "  on  handkerchiefs;  and  souvenir-spoons 
galore,  all  warranted  Gorham's  best. 
The  visitor  at  the  birthplace  is  given  a  cheerful  little 
lecture  on  the  various  relics  and  curiosities  as  they  are 
shown.  The  young  ladies  who  perform  this  office  are 
clever  women  with  pleasant  voices  and  big,  starched, 
white  aprons.  I  was  at  Stratford  four  days  and  went  just 
four  times  to  the  old  curiosity-shop.  Each  day  the  same 

309 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


bright  British  damsel  conducted  me  through,  and  told 
her  tale,  but  it  was  always  with  animation,  and  a  certain 
sweet  satisfaction  in  her  mission  and  starched  apron 
that  was  very  charming. 

No  man  can  tell  the  same  story  over  and  over  without 
soon  reaching  a  point  where  he  betrays  his  weariness, 
and  then  he  flavors  the  whole  with  a  dash  of  contempt; 
but  a  good  woman,  heaven  bless  her!  is  ever  eager  to 
please.  Each  time  when  we  came  to  that  document 

Her 

certified  to  by  "  Judith   X   Shakespeare,"  I  was  told 

Mark 

that  it  was  very  probable  that  Judith  could  write,  but 
that  she  affixed  her  name  thus  in  merry  jest. 
John  Shakespeare  could  not  write,  we  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  Ann  Hathaway  could,  and  this  little 
explanation  about  the  daughter  is  so  very  good  that  it 
deserves  to  rank  with  that  other  pleasant  subterfuge, 
'  The  age  of  miracles  is  past  " ;  or  that  bit  of  jolly  clap- 
trap concerning  the  sacred  baboons  that  are  seen  about 
certain  temples  in  India:  "  They  can  talk,"  explain 
the  priests,  "  but  being  wise  they  never  do." 
Judith  married  Thomas  Quiney.  The  only  letter 
addressed  to  Shakespeare  that  can  be  found  is  one  from 
the  happy  father  of  Thomas,  Mr.  Richard  Quiney, 
wherein  he  asks  for  a  loan  of  thirty  pounds.  Whether 
he  was  accommodated  we  can  not  say;  and  if  he  was, 
did  he  pay  it  back,  is  a  question  that  has  caused  much 
Lot  debate.  But  it  is  worthy  of  note  that,  although 
310 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


considerable  doubt  as  to  authenticity  has  smooched  the 
other  Shakespearian  relics,  yet  the  fact  of  the  poet  having 
been  "  struck  "  for  a  loan  by  Richard  Quiney  stands  out 
in  a  solemn  way  as  the  one  undisputed  thing  in  the 
master's  career.  Little  did  Mr.  Quiney  think,  when  he 
wrote  that  letter,  that  he  was  writing  for  the  ages. 
Philanthropists  have  won  all  by  giving  money,  but  who 
save  Quiney  has  reaped  immortality  by  asking  for  it! 
<I  The  inscription  over  Shakespeare's  grave  is  an  offer 
of  reward  if  you  do,  and  a  threat  of  punishment  if  you 
don't,  all  in  choice  doggerel.  Why  did  he  not  learn  at  the 
feet  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  write  his  own  epitaph  ?  3$ 
But  I  rather  guess  I  know  why  his  grave  was  not 
marked  with  his  name.  He  was  a  play-actor,  and  the 
church  people  would  have  been  outraged  at  the  thought 
of  burying  a  "  strolling  player  "  in  that  sacred  chancel. 
But  his  son-in-law,  Doctor  John  Hall,  honored  the  great 
man  and  was  bound  he  should  have  a  worthy  resting- 
place;  so  at  midnight,  with  the  help  of  a  few  trusted 
friends,  he  dug  the  grave  and  lowered  the  dust  of  Eng- 
land's greatest  son. 

Then  they  hastily  replaced  the  stones,  and  over  the 
grave  they  placed  the  slab  that  they  had  brought: 

"  Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear, 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here, 
Blest  be  the  man  who  spares  these  stones, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  moves  my  bones." 

311 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


A  threat  from  a  ghost!  Ah,  no  one  dare  molest  that 
grave — besides  they  did  n't  know  who  was  buried 
there — neither  are  we  quite  sure.  Long  years  after  the 
interment,  some  one  set  a  bust  of  the  poet,  and  a  tablet, 
on  the  wall  over  against  the  grave. 
Under  certain  circumstances,  if  occasion  demands,  I 
might  muster  a  sublime  conceit;  but  considering  the 
fact  that  ten  thousand  Americans  visit  Stratford  every 
year,  and  all  write  descriptions  of  the  place,  I  dare  not 
in  the  face  of  Baedeker  do  it.  Further  than  that,  in  every 
library  there  are  Washington  Irving,  Hawthorne,  and 
William  Winter's  three  lacrimose  but  charming  volumes. 
<&  And  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  the  Columbus  who 
discovered  Stratford  and  gave  it  to  the  people  was  an 
American:  I  am  proud  to  think  that  Americans  have 
written  so  charmingly  of  Shakespeare:  I  am  proud  to 
know  that  at  Stratford  no  man  besides  the  master  is  as 
honored  as  Irving,  and  while  I  can  not  restrain  a  blush 
for  our  English  cousins,  I  am  proud  that  over  half  the 
visitors  at  the  birthplace  are  Americans,  and  prouder 
still  am  I  to  remember  that  they  all  write  letters  to  the 
newspapers  at  home  about  Stratf ord-on -Avon. 


312 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


N  England  poets  are  relegated  to  a  "  Corner." 
The  earth  and  the  fulness  thereof  belongs  to 
the  men  who  can  kill;  on  this  rock  have  the 
English  State  and  Church  been  built. 
As  the  tourist  approaches  the  city  of  London  for  the 
first  time,  there  are  four  monuments  that  probably  will 
attract  his  attention.  They  lift  themselves  out  of  the 
fog  and  smoke  and  soot,  and  seem  to  struggle  toward 
the  blue  33  33 

One  of  these  monuments  is  to  commemorate  a  calamity 
— the  conflagration  of  Sixteen  Hundred  Sixty-six — and 
the  others  are  in  honor  of  deeds  of  war. 
The  finest  memorial  in  Saint  Paul's  is  to  a  certain 
eminent  Irishman,  Arthur  Wellesley.  The  mines  and 
quarries  of  earth  have  been  called  on  for  their  richest 
contributions;  and  talent  and  skill  have  given  their  all 
to  produce  this  enduring  work  of  beauty,  that  tells 
posterity  of  the  mighty  acts  of  this  mighty  man.  The 
rare  richness  and  lavish  beauty  of  the  Wellington 
mausoleum  are  only  surpassed  by  a  certain  tomb  in 
France  33  33 

As  an  exploiter,  the  Corsican  overdid  the  thing  a  bit — 
so  the  world  arose  and  put  him  down ;  but  safely  dead, 
his  shade  can  boast  a  grave  so  sumptuous  that  English- 
men in  Paris  refuse  to  look  upon  it. 
But  England  need  not  be  ashamed.  Her  land  is  spiked 
with  glistening  monuments  to  greatness  gone.  And  on 
these  monuments  one  often  gets  the  epitomized  life  of 

313 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


the  man  whose  dust  lies  below,  fl  On  the  carved  marble 
to  Lord  Cornwallis  I  read  that,  "  He  defeated  the 
Americans  with  great  slaughter."  And  so,  wherever  in 
England  I  see  a  beautiful  monument,  I  know  that 
probably  the  inscription  will  tell  how  "  he  defeated  " 
somebody.  And  one  grows  to  the  belief  that,  while 
woman's  glory  is  her  hair,  man's  glory  is  to  defeat  some 
one.  And  if  he  can  "  defeat  with  great  slaughter  "  his 
monument  is  twice  as  high  as  if  he  had  only  visited  on 
his  brother  man  a  plain  undoing. 

In  truth,  I  am  told  by  a  friend  who  has  a  bias  for 
statistics,  that  all  monuments  above  fifty  feet  high  in 
England  are  to  the  honor  of  men  who  have  defeated 
other  men  "  with  great  slaughter."  The  only  exceptions 
to  this  rule  are  the  Albert  Memorial — which  is  a 
tribute  of  wifely  affection  rather  than  a  public  testi- 
monial, so  therefore  need  not  be  considered  here — and 
a  monument  to  a  worthy  brewer  who  died  and  left 
three  hundred  thousand  pounds  to  charity.  I  mentioned 
this  fact  to  my  friend,  but  he  unhorsed  me  by  declaring 
that  modesty  forbade  carving  truth  on  monuments,  yet 
it  was  a  fact  that  the  brewer,  too,  had  brought  defeat 
to  vast  numbers  and  had,  like  Saul,  slaughtered  his 
thousands  33  5$ 

When  I  visited  the  site  of  the  Globe  Theater  and  found 
thereon  a  brewery,  whose  shares  are  warranted  to  make 
the  owner  rich  beyond  the  dream  of  avarice,  I  was 
depressed.  In  my  boyhood  I  had  supposed  that  if  ever 
314 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


I  should  reach  this  spot  where  Shakespeare's  plays  were 
first  produced,  I  should  see  a  beautiful  park  and  a 
splendid  monument;  while  some  white-haired  old 
patriarch  would  greet  me,  and  give  a  little  lecture  to  the 
assembled  pilgrims  on  the  great  man  whose  footsteps 
had  made  sacred  the  soil  beneath  our  feet. 
But  there  is  no  park,  and  no  monument,  and  no  white- 
haired  old  poet  to  give  you  welcome — only  a  brewery  S& 
"  Ay,  mon,  but  ain't  ut  a  big  un  >  "  protested  an  English- 
man who  heard  my  murmurs. 

Yes,  yes,  I  must  be  truthful — it  is  a  big  brewery,  and 
there  are  four  big  bulldogs  in  the  courtway;  and  there 
are  big  vats,  and  big  workmen  in  big  aprons.  And  each 
of  these  workmen  is  allowed  to  drink  six  quarts  of  beer 
each  day,  without  charge,  which  proves  that  kindliness 
is  not  dead.  Then  there  are  big  horses  that  draw  the  big 
wagons,  and  on  the  corner  there  is  a  big  taproom  where 
the  thirsty  are  served  with  big  glasses. 
The  founder  of  this  brewery  became  rich;  and  if  my 
statistical  friend  is  right,  the  owners  of  these  mighty 
vats  have  defeated  mankind  with  "  great  slaughter."  3& 
We  have  seen  that,  although  Napoleon,  the  defeated, 
has  a  more  gorgeous  tomb  than  Wellington,  who 
defeated  him,  yet  there  is  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  although  England  has  no  monument  to  Shake- 
speare he  now  has  the  freedom  of  Elysium ;  while  the 
present  address  of  the  British  worthies  who  have 
battened  and  fattened  on  poor  humanity's  thirst  for 

315 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


strong  drink,  since  Samuel  Johnson  was  executor  of 
Thrale's  estate,  is  unknown. 

We  have  this  on  the  authority  of  a  solid  Englishman, 
who  says:  "  The  virtues  essential  and  peculiar  to  the 
exalted  station  of  British  Worthy  debar  the  unfortunate 
possessor  from  entering  Paradise.  There  is  not  a  Lord 
Chancellor,  or  Lord  Mayor,  or  Lord  of  the  Chamber, 
or  Master  of  the  Hounds,  or  Beefeater  in  Ordinary,  or 
any  sort  of  British  bigwig,  out  of  the  whole  of  British 
Beadledom,  upon  which  the  sun  never  sets,  in  Elysium. 
This  is  the  only  dignity  beyond  their  reach." 
The  writer  quoted  is  an  honorable  man,  and  I  am  sure 
he  would  not  make  this  assertion  if  he  did  not  have 
proof  of  the  fact.  So,  for  the  present,  I  will  allow  him  to 
go  on  his  own  recognizance,  believing  that  he  will 
adduce  his  documents  at  the  proper  time. 
But  still,  should  not  England  have  a  fitting  monument 
to  Shakespeare?  He  is  her  one  universal  citizen.  His 
name  is  honored  in  every  school  or  college  of  earth  where 
books  are  prized.  There  is  no  scholar  in  any  clime  who 
is  not  his  debtor. 

He  was  born  in  England ;  he  never  was  out  of  England ; 
his  ashes  rest  in  England.  But  England's  Budget  has 
never  been  ballasted  with  a  single  pound  to  help  pre- 
serve inviolate  the  memory  of  her  one  son  to  whom  the 
world  uncovers. 

Victor  Hugo  has  said  something  on  this  subject  which 
runs  about  like  this: 
316 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


Why  a  monument  to  Shakespeare?  *J  He  is  his  own 
monument  and  England  is  its  pedestal.  Shakespeare 
has  no  need  of  a  pyramid;  he  has  his  work. 
What  can  bronze  or  marble  db  for  him  ?  Malachite  and 
alabaster  are  of  no  avail;  jasper,  serpentine,  basalt, 
porphyry,  granite:  stones  from  Paros  and  marble  from 
Carrara — they  are  all  a  waste  of  pains:  genius  can  do 
without  them. 

What  is  as  indestructible  as  these:  "The  Tempest," 
'  The  Winter's  Tale,"  "  Julius  Caesar,"  "  Coriolanus"  ? 
What  monument  sublimer  than  "  Lear,"  sterner  than 
"The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  more  dazzling  than  "Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  more  amazing  than  "  Richard  111  "? 
What  moon  could  shed  about  the  pile  a  light  more 
mystic  than  that  of  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "? 
What  capital,  were  it  even  in  London,  could  rumble 
around  it  as  tumultuously  as  Macbeth's  perturbed 
soul  ?  What  framework  of  cedar  or  oak  will  last  as  long 
as  "  Othello  "?  What  bronze  can  equal  the  bronze  of 
"Hamlet"? 

No  construction  of  lime,  or  rock,  of  iron  and  of  cement 
is  worth  the  deep  breath  of  genius,  which  is  the  respira- 
tion of  God  through  man.  What  edifice  can  equal 
thought?  Babel  is  less  lofty  than  Isaiah;  Cheops  is 
smaller  than  Homer;  the  Colosseum  is  inferior  to 
Juvenal;  the  Giralda  of  Seville  is  dwarfish  by  the  side 
of  Cervantes;  Saint  Peter's  of  Rome  does  not  reach  to 
the  ankle  of  Dante. 

317 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


What  architect  has  the  skill  to  build  a  tower  so  high 
as  the  name  of  Shakespeare?  Add  anything  if  you  can 
to  mind!  Then  why  a  monument  to  Shakespeare? 
I  answer,  not  for  the  glory  of  Shakespeare,  but  for  the 
honor  of  England! 


318 


THOMAS  A.  EDISON 


The  mind  can  not  conceive  what  man  will  do  in  the 
Twentieth  Century  with  his  chained  lightning. 

— Thomas  A.  Edison 


THOMAS   A.   EDISON 

Photogravure  from  drawing  by  Gaspard 


hat  man  will  do  in  the 
-s  chained  lightning. 

a  .A  ^^^TtA'E 


b-w 


THOMAS  A.  EDISON 


OME  years  ago,  a  law  was  passed 
out  in  Ohio,  making  any  man  ineli- 
gible to  act  as  a  magistrate  who 
had  not  studied  law  and  been  duly 
admitted  to  the  bar.  Men  who  had 
not  studied  law  were  deemed  lack- 
ing in  the  sense  of  justice.  This  law 
was  designed  purely  for  one  man — 
Samuel  M.  Jones  of  Toledo.  Was  ever  a  Jones  so  hon- 
ored before? 

In  Athens,  of  old,  a  law  was  once  passed  declaring  that 
every  man,  either  of  whose  parents  was  an  alien,  was 
not  a  citizen  and  therefore  ineligible  to  hold  office. 
This  law  was  aimed  at  the  head  of  one  man — Them- 
istocles  53  53 

"  And  so  you  are  an  alien?  "  was  the  taunting  remark 
flung  at  the  mother  of  Themistocles. 
And  the  Greek  matron  proudly  answered,  "  Yes,  I  am 
an  alien — but  my  son  is  Themistocles." 
Down  at  Lilly  Dale  the  other  day,  a  woman  told  me 
that  she  had  talked  with  the  mother  of  Edison,  and  the 
spirit-voice  had  said:  "It  is  true  I  was  a  Canadian 
schoolteacher,  and  this  at  a  time  when  very  few  women 
taught,  but  I  am  the  mother  of  him  you  call  Thomas 
A.  Edison.  I  studied  and  read  and  wrote  and  in  degree 
I  educated  myself.  I  had  great  ambition — I  thirsted  to 

321 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


know,  to  do,  to  become.  But  I  was  hampered  and 
chained  in  an  uncongenial  atmosphere.  My  body  strug- 
gled with  its  bonds,  so  that  I  grew  weak,  worried,  sick, 
and  died,  leaving  my  boy  to  struggle  his  way  alone.  My 
only  regret  at  death  was  the  thought  that  I  was  leaving 
my  boy.  I  thought  that  through  my  marriage  I  had 
killed  my  career — sacrificed  myself.  But  my  boy  became 
heir  to  all  my  hunger  for  knowledge,  and  he  has  accom- 
plished what  I  dimly  dreamed.  He  has  made  plain  what 
I  only  guessed.  From  my  position  here  I  have  whispered 
secrets  to  him  that  only  the  freed  spirits  knew.  I  once 
thought  my  life  was  a  failure,  but  now  I  know  that  the 
word  '  failure  '  is  a  term  used  only  by  foolish  mortals. 
In  the  universal  sense  there  is  no  such  thing  as  failure." 
*3  Just  here  it  seems  to  me  that  some  one  once  said  that 
we  get  no  mind  without  brain.  But  we  had  here  the 
brain  of  the  medium,  otherwise  this  alleged  message 
from  the  spirit  realm  would  not  be  ours.  So  we  will  not 
now  tarry  to  discuss  psychic  phenomena,  but  go  on  to 
other  things.  But  the  woman  from  Lilly  Dale  said  some- 
thing, just  the  same. 


322 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


DISON  was  born  at  the  little  village  of  Milan, 
Ohio,  which  lies  six  miles  from  Norwalk  on 
the  road  between  Cleveland  and  Toledo. 
On  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War  the  boy 
was  fourteen  years  old.  His  parents  had  moved  to  Sar- 
nia,  Canada,  and  then  across  to  Port  Huron. 
Young  Edison  used  to  ride  up  and  down  from  Detroit 
on  the  passenger-boats  and  sell  newspapers.  His  stand- 
ing with  the  Detroit  "  Free  Press,"  backed  up  by  his 
good-cheer  and  readiness  to  help  the  passengers  with 
their  babies  and  bundles,  gave  him  free  passage  on  all 
railroads  and  steamboat-lines. 

There  was  a  public  library  at  Detroit  where  any  one 
could  read,  but  books  could  not  be  taken  away. 
All  Edison's  spare  time  was  spent  at  the  library,  which 
to  him  was  a  gold-mine.  All  his  mother's  books  had  been 
sold,  stolen  or  given  away. 

And  ahoy  there,  all  you  folks  who  have  books!  Do  you 
not  know  what  books  are  to  a  child  hungry  for  truth, 
that  has  no  books  > 
Of  course  you  do  not! 

Books  to  a  boy  like  young  Edison  are  treasures-trove, 
in  which  is  stored  the  learning  of  all  great  and  good  and 
wise  who  have  ever  lived. 

And  the  boy  has  to  read,  and  read  for  a  decade,  in  order 
to  find  that  books  are  not  much  after  all. 
When  Edison  saw  the  inside  of  that  library  and  was 
told  he  could  read  any  or  all  of  the  books,  he  said,"  If 

323 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


you  please,  Mister,  I'll  begin  here."  And  he  tackled  the 
first  shelf,  mentally  deciding  that  he  would  go  through 
the  books  ten  feet  at  a  time. 

A  little  later  he  bought  at  an  auction  fifty  volumes  of 
the  "  North  American  Review,"  and  moving  the  books 
up  to  his  home  at  Port  Huron  proceeded  to  read  them. 
*I  The  war  was  on — papers  sold  for  ten  cents  each  and 
business  was  good. 

Edison  was  making  money — and  saving  it.  He  only 
plunged  on  books. 

Over  at  Mount  Clemens,  at  the  Springs,  folks  congre- 
gated, and  there  young  Edison  took  weekly  trips  selling 
papers  33  S& 

On  one  such  visit  he  rescued  the  little  son  of  the  station- 
agent  from  in  front  of  a  moving  train.  In  gratitude,  the 
man  took  the  boy  to  his  house  and  told  him  he  must 
make  it  his  home  while  in  Mount  Clemens;  and  then 
after  supper  the  youngster  went  down  to  the  station; 
and  what  was  more,  the  station-agent  took  him  in  be- 
hind the  ticket-window,  where  the  telegraph-instru- 
ment clicked  off  dots  and  dashes  on  a  long  strip  of  paper. 
§  Edison  looked  on  with  open  mouth. 
'  Would  you  like  to  become  a  telegraph-operator  ?  " 
asked  the  agent. 
"  Sure!  "  was  the  reply. 

Already  the  boy  had  read  up  on  the  subject  in  his  library 
of  the  "  North  American  Review,"  and  he  really  knew 
the  history  of  the  thing  better  than  did  the  agent. 
324 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


Edison  was  now  a  newsboy  on  the  Grand  Trunk,  and 
he  arranged  his  route  so  as  to  spend  every  other  night 
at  Mount  Clemens. 

In  a  few  months  he  could  handle  the  key  about  as  well 
as  the  station-agent. 

About  this  time  the  ice  had  carried  out  the  telegraph- 
line  between  Port  Huron  and  Sarnia.  The  telegraph 
people  were  in  sore  straits.  Edison  happened  along  and 
said  to  the  local  operator,  "  Come  out  here,  Bill,  on 
this  switch-engine  and  we  '11  fix  things!  "  By  short 
snorts  of  the  whistle  for  dots  and  long  ones  for  dashes, 
they  soon  caught  the  ear  of  the  operator  on  the  other 
side.  He  answered  back,  "What  t  'ell  is  the  matter 
with  you  fellows?  "  And  Edison  and  the  other  operator 
roared  with  laughter,  so  that  the  engineer  thought  their 
think-boxes  needed  re-babbitting. 

And  that  scheme  of  telegraphy  with  a  steam-whistle 
was  Edison's  first  invention. 


325 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


NSTEAD  of  going  to  college  Edison  started 
a  newspaper — a  kind  of  amateur  affair,  in 
which   he    himself   wrote   editorials,    news- 
items    and    advertisements — this    when    he 
was  seventeen  years  old. 

The  best  way  to  become  a  skilled  writer  is  to  write ;  and 
if  there  is  a  better  way  to  learn  than  by  doing,  the 
world  has  not  yet  discovered  it. 

Also,  if  there  is  a  finer  advantage  for  a  youth  who  would 
be  a  financier  than  to  have  a  shiftless  father,  it  has  not 
been  recorded. 

When  nineteen,  Edison  had  two  thousand  dollars  in 
cash — more  money  than  his  father  had  ever  seen  at  any 
one  time  53  53 

The  Grand  Trunk  folks  found  that  their  ex-trainboy 
could  operate,  and  so  they  called  on  him  to  help  them 
out,  up  and  down  the  line.  Then  the  Western  Union 
wanted  extra  good  men,  and  young  Edison  was  given 
double  pay  to  go  to  New  Orleans,  where  there  was  a 
pitiful  dearth  of  operators,  the  Southern  operators  be- 
ing mostly  dead,  and  Northern  men  not  caring  to  live 
in  the  South. 

So  Edison  traveled  North  and  South  and  East  and 
West,  gathering  gear.  He  had  studied  the  science  of 
telegraphy  closely  enough  to  see  that  it  could  be  im- 
proved upon.  One  message  at  a  time  for  one  wire  was 
absurd — why  not  two,  or  four,  and  why  not  send  mes- 
sages both  ways  at  once!  fl  It  was  the  general  idea  then 
326 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


that  electricity  traveled :  Edison  knew  better — electricity 
merely  rendered  the  wire  sensitive. 
Edison  was  getting  a  reputation  among  his  associates. 
He  had  read  everything,  and  when  his  key  was  not 
busy,  there  was  in  his  hand  a  copy  of  Gibbon's  "  Decline 
and  Fall." 

He  wrote  a  hand  like  copperplate  and  could  "  take  " 
as  fast  as  the  best  could  send.  And  when  it  came  to 
"  sending,"  he  had  made  the  pride  of  Chicago  cry  quits. 
flThe  Western  Union  had  need  of  a  specially  good 
man  at  Albany  while  the  Legislature  was  in  session, 
and  Edison  was  sent  there.  He  took  the  key  and  never 
looked  at  the  clock — he  cleaned  up  the  stuff.  He  sat 
glued  to  his  chair  for  ten  hours,  straight. 
At  one  time,  the  line  suddenly  became  blocked  between 
Albany  and  New  York.  The  manager  was  in  distress, 
and  after  exhausting  all  known  expedients  went  to 
Edison.  The  lanky  youth  called  up  a  friend  of  his  in 
Pittsburgh  and  ordered  that  New  York  give  the  Pitts- 
burgh man  the  Albany  wire.  "  Feel  your  way  up  the 
river  until  you  find  me,"  were  the  orders. 
Edison  started  feeling  his  way  down  the  river. 
In  twenty  minutes  he  called  to  the  manager,  "The 
break  is  two  miles  below  Poughkeepsie — I  Ve  ordered 
the  section-boss  at  Poughkeepsie  to  take  a  repairer  on 
his  handcar  and  go  and  fix  it! " 

Of  course,  this  plain  telegraph-operator  had  no  right 
to  order  out  a  section-boss;  but  nevertheless  he  did  it. 

327 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


He  shouldered  responsibility  like  Tom  Potter  of  the 
C..B.&Q. 

Not  long  after  the  Albany  experience,  Edison  was  in 
New  York,  not  looking  for  work  as  some  say,  but  nosing 
around  Wall  Street  investigating  the  "  Laws  Auto- 
matic Ticker."  The  machine  he  was  looking  at  suddenly 
stopped,  and  this  blocked  all  the  tickers  on  the  line.  An 
expert  was  sent  for,  but  he  could  not  start  it. 
"  I  '11  fix  it,"  said  a  tall,  awkward  volunteer,  the  same 
which  was  Edison. 

History  is  not  yet  clear  as  to  whether  Edison  had  not 
originally  "fixed  "  it,  and  Edison  so  far  has  not  con- 
fessed 53  53 

And  there  being  no  one  else  to  start  the  machine, 
Edison  was  given  a  chance,  and  soon  the  tickers  were 
going  again.  This  gave  him  an  introduction  to  the 
stock-ticker  folks,  and  the  Western  Union  people  he 
already  knew. 

This  was  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy,  and  Edison  was 
then  twenty-three  years  old. 

He  studied  out  how  stock-reporting  could  be  bettered 
and  invented  a  plan  which  he  duly  patented,  and  then 
laid  his  scheme  before  the  Western  Union  managers. 
<SA  stock  company  was  formed,  and  young  Edison, 
aged  twenty-four,  was  paid  exactly  forty  thousand 
dollars  for  his  patent,  and  retained  by  the  Company  as 
Electrical  Adviser  at  three  hundred  dollars  a  month. 
9  In  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy-four,  when  he  was 
328 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


twenty-seven,  he  had  perfected  his  duplex  telegraph 
apparatus  and  had  a  factory  turning  out  telegraph- 
instruments  and  appliances  at  Newark,  New  Jersey, 
where  three  hundred  men  were  employed. 
In  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy-six,  the  year  of  the  Cen- 
tennial Exposition,  Edison  told  the  Exposition  Man- 
agers that  if  they  would  wait  a  year  or  so  he  would  light 
their  show  with  electricity. 

He  moved  to  the  then  secluded  spot  of  Menlo  Park  to 
devote  himself  to  experiments,  spending  an  even  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  in  equipment  as  a  starter.  Results 
followed  fast,  and  soon  we  had  the  incandescent  lamp, 
trolley-car,  electric  pen  and  many  other  inventions.  It 
was  on  the  night  of  October  the  Twenty-third,  Eight- 
een Hundred  Seventy-nine,  that  Edison  first  turned 
the  current  through  an  incandescent  burner  and  got 
the  perfect  light.  He  sat  and  looked  at  the  soft,  mild, 
beautiful  light  and  laughed  a  joyous  peal  of  laughter 
that  was  heard  in  the  adjoining  rooms.  "  We  Ve  got  it, 
boys!  "  he  cried,  and  the  boys,  a  dozen  of  them,  came 
tumbling  in.  Arguments  started  as  to  how  long  it 
would  last.  One  said  an  hour.  "  Twenty-four  hours," 
said  Edison.  They  all  vowed  they  would  watch  it 
without  sleep  until  the  carbon  film  was  destroyed  and 
the  light  went  out.  It  lasted  just  forty  hours. 
Around  Edison  grew  up  a  group  of  great  workers — 
proud  to  be  called  "  Edison  Men  " — and  some  of  these 
went  out  and  made  for  themselves  names  and  fortunes. 

329 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


9  Edison  was  born  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Forty-seven. 
Consequently,  at  this  writing  he  is  sixty-three  years 
old.  He  is  big  and  looks  awkward,  because  his  dusty- 
gray  clothes  do  not  fit,  and  he  walks  with  a  slight  stoop. 
When  he  wants  clothes  he  telephones  for  them.  His 
necktie  is  worn  by  the  right  oblique,  his  iron-gray  hair 
is  combed  by  the  wind.  On  his  cherubic  face  usually 
sits  a  half-quizzical,  pleased  smile,  that  fades  into  a 
look  plaintive  and  very  gentle.  The  face  is  that  of  a 
man  who  has  borne  burdens  and  known  sorrow,  of  one 
who  has  overcome  only  after  mighty  effort.  I  was  going 
to  say  that  Edison  looks  like  a  Roman  Emperor,  but 
I  recall  that  no  Roman  Emperor  deserves  to  rank  with 
him — not  even  Julius  Caesar!  The  face  is  that  of  Napo- 
leon at  Saint  Helena,  unsubdued. 

The  predominant  characteristics  of  the  man  are  his 
faith,  hope,  good-cheer  and  courage.  But  at  all  times 
his  humor  is  apt  to  be  near  the  surface. 
Had  Edison  been  as  keen  a  businessman  as  Rockefeller, 
and  kept  his  own  in  his  own  hands,  he  would  today  be 
as  rich  as  Rockefeller. 

But  Edison  is  worth,  oh,  say,  two  million  dollars, 
and  that  is  all  any  man  should  be  worth — it  is  all 
he  needs.  Yet  there  are  at  least  a  hundred  men  in  the 
world  today,  far  richer  than  Edison,  who  have  made 
their  fortunes  wholly  and  solely  by  appropriating  his 
ideas  5$  53 

Edison  has  trusted  people,  and  some  of  them  have  taken 
330 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


advantage  of  his  great,  big,  generous,  boyish  spirit  to  do 
him  grievous  wrong.  But  the  nearest  I  ever  heard  him 
come  to  making  a  complaint  was  when  he  said  to  me, 
"  Fra  Elbertus,  you  never  wrote  but  one  really  true 
thing!  33  33 

'  Well,  what  was  that,  Mr.  Edison?  " 

'  You  said,  '  There  is  one  thing  worse  than  to  be  de- 
ceived by  men,  and  that  is  to  distrust  them/  Now 
people  say  I  have  been  successful,  and  so  I  have,  in 
degree,  and  it  has  been  through  trusting  men.  There 
are  a  few  fellows  who  always  know  just  what  I  am 
doing — I  confide  in  them — I  explain  things  to  them 
just  to  straighten  the  matter  out  in  my  own  mind." 
But  of  the  men  who  have  used  Edison's  money  and  ideas, 
who  have  made  it  a  life  business  to  study  his  patents 
and  then  use  them,  evading  the  law,  not  a  word! 
From  Eighteen  Hundred  Seventy  to  Eighteen  Hundred 
Ninety,  Edison  secured  over  nine  hundred  patents,  or 
at  the  rate  of  one  patent  every  ten  days.  Very  few 
indeed  of  these  patents  ever  brought  him  any  direct 
return,  and  now  his  plan  is  to  invent  and  keep  the  mat- 
ter a  secret  in  his  "  family." 

'  The  value  of  an  idea  lies  in  the  using  of  it,"  he  said 
to  me.  "You  patent  a  thing  and  the  other  fellow  starts 
even  with  you.  Keep  it  to  yourself  and  you  have  the 
machinery  going  before  the  other  fellow  is  awake.  Pat- 
ents may  protect  some  things,  and  still  others  they 
only  advertise.  Up  in  Buffalo  you  have  a  great  lawyer 

331 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


who  says  he  can  drive  a  coach  and  four  through  any 
will  that  was  ever  made — and  I  guess  he  can.  All  good 
lawyers  know  how  to  break  wills  and  contracts,  and 
there  are  now  specialists  who  secure  goodly  fees  for 
busting  patents.  If  you  have  an  idea,  go  ahead  and 
invent  a  way  tc  use  it  and  keep  your  process  secret." 


332 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


HE  Edison  factories  at  West  Orange  cover  a 
space  of  about  thirty  acres,  all  fenced  in  with 
high  pickets  and  barb-wire.  Over  two  thou- 
sand people  are  employed  inside  that  fence. 


There  are  guards  at  the  gates,  and  the  would-be  visitor 
is  challenged  as  if  he  were  an  enemy.  If  you  want  to 
see  any  particular  person,  you  do  not  go  in  and  see 
him — he  comes  to  you  and  you  sit  in  a  place  like  the 
visitors'  dock  at  Sing-Sing. 

With  me  it  was  different:  I  had  a  note  that  made  the 
gates  swing  wide.  However,  one  gatekeeper  scrutinized 
the  note  and  scrutinized  me,  and  then  went  back  into 
a  maze  of  buildings  for  advice.  When  he  came  back, 
the  General  Manager  was  with  him  and  was  reproving 
him.  In  a  voice  full  of  defense  the  County  Down  watch- 
man said:  "  Ah,  now,  and  how  did  I  know  but  that  it 
was  a  forgery }  And  anyhow,  I  'd  never  let  in  a  man 
what  looks  like  that,  even  if  he  had  an  order  from  Bill 
Taft!"  33  33 

The  Edison  factories,  all  enclosed  in  the  high  fence  and 
under  guard,  include  four  separate  and  distinct  corpo- 
rations, each  with  its  own  set  of  offices.  Edison  himself 
owns  a  controlling  interest  in  each  corporation,  and 
the  rest  of  the  stock  is  owned  by  the  managers  or 
"  family."  With  his  few  trusted  helpers  he  is  most  lib- 
eral. Not  only  do  they  draw  goodly  salaries,  but  they 
have  an  interest  in  the  profits  that  is  no  small  matter  3$ 
The  secrets  of  the  place  are  protected  by  having  each 

333 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


workman  stick  right  to  one  thing  and  work  in  one 
room.  No  running  around  is  allowed — each  employee 
goes  to  a  certain  place  and  remains  there  all  day.  To 
be  found  elsewhere  is  a  misdemeanor,  and  while  spies 
at  the  Edison  factory  are  not  shot,  they  have  been 
known  to  disappear  into  space  with  great  velocity. 
To  make  amends  for  the  close  restrictions  on  workers, 
an  extra  wage  is  paid  and  the  eight-hour  day  prevails, 
so  help  is  never  wanting. 

Ninety-nine  workers  out  of  a  hundred  want  their 
wages,  and  nothing  else.  Promotion,  advancement  and 
education  are  things  that  never  occur  to  them.  But 
for  the  few  that  have  the  stuff  in  them,  Edison  is 
always  on  the  lookout.  His  place  is  really  a  college,  for 
to  know  the  man  is  an  education.  He  radiates  good- 
cheer  and  his  animation  is  catching. 
To  a  woman  who  wanted  him  to  write  a  motto  for  her 
son,  Edison  wrote,  "  Never  look  at  the  clock!  "  The 
argument  is  plain — get  the  thing  done. 
And  around  the  Edison  laboratory  there  is  no  use  of 
looking  at  the  clock,  for  none  of  them  runs.  That  is 
the  classic  joke  of  the  place.  Years  ago  Edison  expressed 
his  contempt  for  the  man  who  watched  the  clock,  and 
now  every  Christmas  his  office  family  take  up  a  collec- 
tion and  buy  him  a  clock,  and  present  it  with  great 
ceremony.  He  replies  in  a  speech  on  the  nebular  hypoth- 
esis and  all  are  very  happy.  One  year  the  present 
assumed  the  form  of  an  Ingersoll  Dollar  Watch,  which 
334 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


the  Wizard  showed  to  me  with  great  pride.  In  the 
stockade  is  a  beautiful  library  building  and  here  you 
see  clocks  galore,  some  of  which  must  have  cost  a 
thousand  dollars  apiece,  all  silent.  One  clock  had  a 
neatly  printed  card  attached,  "  Don't  look  at  this  clock 
— it  has  stopped."  And  another,  "  You  may  look  at  this 
clock,  for  you  can't  stop  it!  "  It  was  already  stopped  3$ 
One  very  elegant  clock  had  a  solid  block  of  wood  where 
the  works  should  have  been,  but  the  face  and  golden 
hands  were  all  complete. 

However,  one  clock  was  running,  with  a  tick  needlessly 
loud,  but  this  clock  had  no  hands. 

The  Edison  Library  is  a  gigantic  affair,  with  two 
balconies  and  bookstacks  limitless. 
The  intent  was  to  have  a  scientific  library  right  at  hand 
that  would  compass  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  The 
Laboratory  is  quite  as  complete,  for  in  it  is  every 
chemical  substance  known  to  man,  all  labeled,  classified 
and  indexed.  Seemingly,  Edison  is  the  most  careless, 
indifferent  and  slipshod  of  men,  but  the  real  fact  is  that 
such  a  thorough  business  general  the  world  has  seldom 
seen.  If  he  wants,  say,  the  "  Electrical  Review  "  for 
March,  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-one,  he  hands  a  boy  a 
slip  of  paper  and  the  book  is  in  his  hands  in  five  minutes. 
Edison  of  all  men  understands  that  knowledge  consists 
in  having  a  clerk  who  can  quickly  find  the  thing.  In  his 
hands  the  card-index  has  reached  perfection. 
Edison  has  no  private  office,  and  his  desk  in  the  great 

335 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


library  has  not  had  a  letter  written  on  it  since  Eighteen 
Hundred  Ninety-five.  "  I  hate  to  disturb  the  mice," 
he  said  as  he  pointed  it  out  indifferently. 
He  arrives  at  the  stockade  early — often  by  seven 
o'clock,  and  makes  his  way  direct  to  the  Laboratory, 
which  stands  in  the  center  of  the  campus.  All  around 
are  high  factory  buildings,  vibrating  with  the  suppressed 
roar  and  hum  of  industry. 

In  the  Laboratory,  Edison  works,  secure  and  free  from 
interruption  unless  he  invites  it.  Much  of  his  time  is 
spent  in  the  Chemical  Building,  a  low,  one-story 
structure,  lighted  from  the  top.  It  has  a  cement  floor 
and  very  simple  furniture,  the  shelves  and  tables  being 
mostly  of  iron.  "  We  are  always  prepared  for  fires  and 
explosions  here,"  said  Edison  in  half -apology  for  the 
barrenness  of  the  rooms. 

The  place  is  a  maze  of  retorts,  kettles,  tubes,  siphons 
and  tiny  brass  machinery.  In  the  midst  of  the  mess 
stood  two  old-fashioned  armchairs — both  sacred  to 
Edison.  One  he  sits  in,  and  the  other  is  for  his  feet,  his 
books,  pads  and  paper. 

Here  he  sits  and  thinks,  reads  or  muses  or  tells  stories 
or  shuffles  about  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Edison 
is  a  man  of  infinite  leisure.  He  has  the  faculty  of  throw- 
ing details  upon  others.  At  his  elbow,  shod  in  sneakers 
silent,  is  always  a  stenographer.  Then  there  is  a  book- 
keeper who  does  nothing  but  record  the  result  of  every 
experiment,  and  these  experiments  are  going  on  con- 
336 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


stantly,  attended  to  by  half  a  dozen  quiet  and  alert 
men,  who  work  like  automatons.  "'  I  have  tried  a 
million  schemes  that  will  not  work — I  know  everything 
that  is  no  good.  I  work  by  elimination,"  says  Edison  33 
When  hot  on  the  trail  of  an  idea  he  may  work  here  for 
three  days  and  nights  without  going  home,  and  his  wife 
is  good  enough  and  great  enough  to  leave  him  abso- 
lutely to  himself.  In  a  little  room  in  the  corner  of  the 
Laboratory  is  a  little  iron  cot  and  three  gray  army 
blankets.  He  can  sleep  at  any  time,  and  half  an  hour's 
rest  will  enable  him  to  go  on.  When  he  can't  quite 
catch  the  idea,  he  closes  up  his  brain-cells  for  ten 
minutes  and  sleeps,  then  up  and  after  it  again. 
Mrs.  Edison  occasionally  sends  meals  down  for  the 
Wizard  when  he  is  on  the  trail  of  a  thought  and  does 
not  want  to  take  time  to  go  home. 
One  day  the  dinner  arrived  when  Edison  was  just 
putting  salt  on  the  tail  of  an  idea.  There  was  no  time 
to  eat,  but  it  occurred  to  the  inventor  that  if  he  would 
just  quit  thinking  for  ten  minutes  and  sleep,  he  could 
awaken  with  enough  brain-power  to  throw  the  lariat 
successfully.  So  he  just  leaned  back,  put  his  feet  in  the 
other  chair  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  General  Manager  came  in  and  saw  the  dinner  on 
the  table  and  Edison  sleeping,  so  he  just  sat  down  and 
began  to  eat  the  dinner.  He  ate  it  all,  and  tiptoed  out  33 
Edison  slept  twenty  minutes,  awoke,  looked  at  the 
empty  dishes,  pulled  down  his  vest,  took  out  his  regular 

337 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


after-dinner  cigar,  lighted  it  and  smoked  away  in  sweet 
satisfaction,  fully  believing  that  he  had  had  his  dinner; 
and  even  after  the  General  Manager  had  come  in  and 
offered  to  bet  him  a  dollar  he  had  n't,  he  was  still  of  the 
same  mind. 

This  spirit  of  sly  joking  fills  the  place,  set  afloat  by  the 
master  himself.  Edison  dearly  loves  a  joke,  and  will  quit 
work  any  time  to  hear  one.  It  is  the  five  minutes'  sleep 
and  the  good  laugh  that  keep  his  brain  from  becoming 
a  hotbox — he  gets  his  rest ! 

*  When  do  you  take  your  vacation,  Mr.  Edison?  " 
a  lady  asked  him. 

"  Ejection  night  every  November,"  was  the  reply.  And 
this  is  literally  true,  for  on  that  night  there  is  a  special 
wire  run  into  the  Orange  Clubhouse,  and  Edison  takes 
the  key  and  sits  there  until  daylight  taking  the  returns, 
writing  them  out  carefully  in  that  copperplate  Western 
Union  hand.  He  is  as  careful  about  his  handwriting  now 
as  if  he  were  writing  out  train-orders. 
"  If  I  wanted  to  live  a  hundred  years  I  would  use 
neither  tobacco  nor  coffee,"  said  Edison  as  we  sat  at 
lunch.  "  But  you  see  I  'd  rather  get  a  little  really  good 
work  done  than  live  long  and  do  nothing  to  speak  of. 
And  so  I  spur  what  I  am  pleased  to  call  my  mind,  at 
times  with  coffee  and  a  good  cigar — just  pass  the 
matches,  thank  you!  Some  day  some  fellow  will  invent 
a  way  of  concentrating  and  storing  up  sunshine  to  use 
instead  of  this  old,  absurd  Prometheus  scheme  of  fire. 
338 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


I  '11  do  the  trick  myself  if  some  one  else  does  n't  get  at  it. 
Why,  that  is  all  there  is  about  my  work  in  electricity — 
you  know,  I  never  claimed  to  have  invented  electricity 
— that  is  a  campaign  lie — nail  it! 

"  Sunshine  is  spread  out  thin  and  so  is  electricity. 
Perhaps  they  are  the  same,  but  we  will  take  that  up 
later.  Now  the  trick  was,  you  see,  to  concentrate  the 
juice  and  liberate  it  as  you  needed  it.  The  old-fashioned 
way  inaugurated  by  Jove,  of  letting  it  off  in  a  clap  of 
thunder,  is  dangerous,  disconcerting  and  wasteful.  It 
does  n't  fetch  up  anywhere.  My  task  was  to  subdivide 
the  current  and  use  it  in  a  great  number  of  little  lights, 
and  to  do  this  I  had  to  store  it.  And  we  have  n't  really 
found  out  how  to  store  it  yet  and  let  it  off  real  easy- 
like  and  cheap.  Why,  we  have  just  begun  to  commence 
to  get  ready  to  find  out  about  electricity.  This  scheme 
of  combustion  to  get  power  makes  me  sick  to  think  of — 
it  is  so  wasteful.  It  is  just  the  old,  foolish  Prometheus 
idea,  and  the  father  of  Prometheus  was  a  baboon  53  53 
'  When  we  learn  how  to  store  electricity,  we  will  cease 
being  apes  ourselves;  until  then  we  are  tailless  orang- 
utans. You  see,  we  should  utilize  natural  forces  and 
thus  get  all  of  our  power.  Sunshine  is  a  form  of  energy, 
and  the  winds  and  the  tides  are  manifestations  of 
energy  53  53 

"  Do  we  use  them  >  Oh,  no !  We  burn  up  wood  and  coal, 
as  renters  burn  up  the  front  fence  for  fuel.  We  live  like 
squatters,  not  as  if  we  owned  the  property. 

339 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


'  There  must  surely  come  a  time  when  heat  and  power 
will  be  stored  in  unlimited  quantities  in  every  commu- 
nity, all  gathered  by  natural  forces.  Electricity  ought  to 
be  as  cheap  as  oxygen,  for  it  can  not  be  destroyed. 
"  Now,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  my  new  storage-battery 
is  the  thing.  I  'd  tell  you  about  that,  but  I  don't  want 
to  bore  you.  Of  course,  I  know  that  nothing  is  more 
interesting  to  the  public  than  a  good  lie.  You  see,  I  have 
been  a  newspaperman  myself — used  to  run  a  newspaper 
— in  fact,  Veritas  and  Old  Subscriber  once  took  excep- 
tion to  one  of  my  editorials  and  threw  me  into  the 
Detroit  River — that  is  where  I  got  my  little  deafness — 
what 's  that?  No,  I  did  not  say  my  deftness — I  got  that 
in  another  way.  But  about  lies,  you  have  heard  that 
one  about  my  smoking  big,  black  cigars!  Well,  the  story 
is  that  the  boys  in  the  office  used  to  steal  my  cigars,  and 
so  I  got  a  cigarmaker  to  make  me  up  a  box  that  looked 
just  like  my  favorite  brand,  only  I  had  'em  filled  with 
hemp,  horsehair  and  a  touch  of  asafetida.  Then  I  just 
left  the  box  where  the  boys  would  be  sure  to  dip  into  it ; 
but  it  seems  the  cigarman  put  them  on,  and  so  they  just 
put  that  box  into  my  own  private  stock  and  I  smoked 
the  fumigators  and  never  knew  the  difference. 

'  That  whole  story  is  a  pernicious  malrepresentation 
invented  by  the  enemy  of  mankind  in  order  to  throw 
obloquy  over  a  virtuous  old  telegraph-operator — 
brand  it!"  • 

Witness,  therefore,  that  I  have  branded  it,  forevermore! 
340 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


NCE  upon  a  day  I  wrote  an  article  on 
Alexander  Humboldt.  And  in  that  article 
among  other  things  I  said,  "  This  world  of 
ours,  round  like  an  orange  and  slightly  flat- 
tened at  the  Poles,  has  produced  but  five  educated  men.*' 
*J  And  ironical  ladies  and  gents  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  States  wrote  me  on  postal  cards,  begging  that  I 
should  name  the  other  four.  Let  us  leave  the  cynics  to 
their  little  pleasantries,  and  make  our  appeal  to  people 
who  think. 

Education  means  evolution,  development,  growth. 
Education  is  comparative,  for  there  is  no  fixed  standard 
— all  men  know  more  than  some  men,  and  some  men 
know  more  than  some  other  men.  "  Every  man  I  meet 
is  my  master  in  some  particular,"  said  Emerson.  But 
there  are  five  men  in  history  who  had  minds  so  devel- 
oped, and  evolved  beyond  the  rest  of  mankind  so  far, 
that  they  form  a  class  by  themselves,  and  deserve  to  be 
called  Educated  Men. 

The  men  I  have  in  mind  were  the  following:  Pericles, 
Builder  of  Athens. 

Aristotle,  tutor  of  Alexander,  and  the  world's  first 
naturalist  33  5$ 

Leonardo,  the  all-round  man — the  man  who  could  do 
more  things,  and  do  them  well,  than  any  other  man  who 
every  lived. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the  mathematician,  who  analyzed 
light  and  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation. 

341 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


Alexander  von  Humboldt,  explorer  and  naturalist,  who 
compassed  the  entire  scientific  knowledge  of  the  world, 
issued  his  books  in  deluxe  limited  editions  at  his  own 
expense,  and  sold  them  for  three  thousand  dollars  a  set. 
<J  Newton  and  Humboldt  each  wore  a  seven  and  three- 
fourths  hat.  Leonardo  and  Aristotle  went  untaped, 
but  Pericles  had  a  head  so  high  and  so  big  that  he  looked 
like  a  caricature,  and  Aristophanes,  a  nice  man  who 
lived  at  the  same  time,  said  that  the  head  of  Pericles 
looked  like  a  pumpkin  that  had  been  sat  upon.  All  the 
busts  of  Pericles  represent  him  wearing  a  helmet — this 
to  avoid  what  the  artists  thought  an  abnormality,  the 
average  Greek  having  a  round,  smooth  chucklehead  like 
that  of  a  Bowery  bartender. 

America  has  produced  two  men  who  stand  out  so  far 
beyond  the  rest  of  mankind  that  they  form  a  class  by 
themselves:  Benjamin  Franklin  and  Thomas  A.  Edison. 
<I  Franklin  wore  a  seven  and  a  half  hat;  Edison  wears  a 
seven  and  three-fourths. 

The  difference  in  men  is  the  difference  in  brain-power. 
And  while  size  does  not  always  token  quality,  yet  size 
and  surface  are  necessary  to  get  power,  and  there  is  no 
record  of  a  man  with  a  six  and  a  half  head  ever  making  a 
ripple  on  the  intellectual  sea.  Without  the  cells  you  get 
no  mind,  and  if  mind  exists  without  the  cells,  it  has  not 
yet  been  proven.  The  brain  is  a  storage-battery  made 
up  of  millions  of  minute  cells. 

The  weight  of  an  average  man's  brain  is  forty-nine 
342 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


ounces.  Now,  Humboldt's  brain  weighed  fifty-six 
ounces,  and  Newton's  and  Franklin's  weighed  fifty- 
seven.  Let  us  hope  the  autopsist  will  not  have  a  chance 
to  weigh  Edison's  brain  for  many  years,  but  when  he 
does  the  mark  will  register  fifty-seven  ounces. 
An  orang-utan  weighs  about  the  same  as  a  man,  but 
its  brain  weighs  only  a  pound,  against  three  pounds  for 
a  man.  Give  a  gorilla  a  brain  weighing  fifty  ounces,  and 
he  would  be  a  Methodist  Presiding  Elder.  Give  him  a 
brain  the  same  size  of  Edison's,  say  fifty-seven  ounces, 
and  instead  of  spending  life  in  hunting  for  snakes  and 
heaving  cocoanuts  at  monkeys  as  respectable  gorillas 
are  wont,  he  would  be  weighing  the  world  in  scales  of 
his  own  invention  and  making,  and  measuring  the 
distances  of  the  stars. 

Pericles  was  taught  by  the  gentle  Anaxagoras,  who  gave 
all  his  money  to  the  State  in  order  that  he  might  be  free. 
The  State  reciprocated  by  cutting  off  his  head,  for 
republics  are  always  ungrateful. 

Aristotle  was  a  pupil  of  Plato  and  worked  his  way 
through  college,  sifting  ashes,  washing  windows  and 
sweeping  sidewalks. 

Leonardo  was  self-taught  and  gathered  knowledge  as  a 
bee  gathers  honey,  although  honey  is  n't  honey  until 
the  bee  digests  it. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton  was  a  Cambridge  man.  He  held  the 
office  of  Master  of  the  Mint,  and  to  relieve  himself  of 
the  charge  of  atheism  he  anticipated  the  enemy  and 

343 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


wrote  a  book  on  the  Hebrew  Prophets,  which  gave  the 
scientists  the  laugh  on  him,  but  made  his  position  with 
the  State  secure.  Newton  is  the  only  man  herein 
mentioned  who  knew  anything  about  theology,  all  the 
others  being  "  infidels  "  in  their  day,  devoting  them- 
selves strictly  to  this  world.  Humboldt  was  taught  by 
the  "  natural  method,"  and  never  took  a  college  degree. 
9  Franklin  was  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Hard 
Knocks,  and  Edison's  Alma  Mater  is  the  same. 
There  is  one  special  characteristic  manifested  by  the 
Seven  Educated  men  I  have  named — good-cheer,  a 
great  welling  sense  of  happiness!  They  were  all  good 
animals:  they  gloried  in  life;  they  loved  the  men  and 
women  who  were  still  on  earth;  they  feasted  on  the 
good  things  in  life;  breathed  deeply;  slept  soundly  and 
did  not  bother  about  the  future.  Their  working  motto 
was,  "  One  world  at  a  time." 
They  were  all  able  to  laugh. 
Genius  is  a  great  fund  of  joyousness. 
Each  and  all  of  these  men  influenced  the  world  pro- 
foundly. We  are  different  people  because  they  lived. 
Every  house,  school,  library  and  workshop  in  Christen- 
dom is  touched  by  their  presence. 

All  are  dead  but  Edison,  yet  their  influence  can  never 
die.  And  no  one  in  the  list  has  influenced  civilization  so 
profoundly  as  Edison.  You  can  not  look  out  of  a  window 
in  any  city  in  Europe  or  America  without  beholding  the 
influence  of  his  thought.  You  may  say  that  the  science 
344 


THOMAS    A.    EDISON 


of  electricity  has  gone  past  him,  but  all  the  Sons  of  Jove 
have  built  on  him. 

He  gave  us  the  electric  light  and  the  electric  car  and 
pointed  the  way  to  the  telephone — three  things  that 
have  revolutionized  society.  As  Athens  at  her  height 
was  the  Age  of  Pericles,  so  will  our  time  be  known  as 
the  Age  of  Edison. 


345 


SO  HERE  ENDETH  "LITTLE  JOURNEYS  TO  THE 
HOMES  OF  GOOD  MEN  AND  GREAT "  BEING  VOLUME 
ONE  OF  THE  SERIES,  AS  WRITTEN  BY  ELBERT  HUB- 
BARD:  EDITED  AND  ARRANGED  BY  JOHN  T.  HOYLE; 
TYPOGRAPHY  BY  CHARLES  ROSEN  AND  AXEL  EDWARD 
SAHUN ;  BORDERS  AND  INITIALS  BY  ROYCROFT  ARTISTS, 
AND  BINDING  BY  CHARLES  YOUNGERS.  PRODUCED  BY 
THE  ROYCROFTERS,  THEIR  SHOPS,  WHICH  ARE  IN 
EAST  AURORA,  ERIE  COUNTY,  NEW  YORK,  MCMXVI. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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